Stories  by 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 


FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 
R.  BENNETT  WEAVER 


a*t 


STORIES   BY 
HONORS   DE   BALZAC 


ttbe  "Oorl&'s  Storg 


'uniform  in  size  and  style  with  this  volume. 

STORIES   BY   GAUTIER 
STORIES    BY   HOFFMANN 
STORIES    BY   BALZAC 
STORIES   BY   STEELE 
STORIES   BY   ADDISON 
STORIES   BY   GOLDSMITH 
STORIES   BY   CHATEAUBRIAND 
STORIES   BY   POE 
STORIES   BY   NASH 
STORIES   BY   TOLSTOY 
STORIES   BY   BOCCACCIO 
STORIES    BY    MALORY 

And  from  '  Arabian  Nights,'  the 
'  Gesta  Romanorum,"  etc. 

Others  in  Preparation. 


THE  WORLD'S  STORY  TELLERS 
EDITED  BY  ARTHUR  RANSOME 


STORIES 


BY 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC 


NEW  YORK:   E.  P.  DUTTON  AND  COMPANY 
1909 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SUMMARISED   CHRONOLOGY  .  .          ix 

INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY  .  .  .  .  .          xi 

THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE      ....          I 
THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  .  41 

AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR      ,  69 

FACING  CANE     .                                                 .98 
LA  GRANDE  BRETECHK I2O 


SUMMARISED  CHRONOLOGY 

Honors  de  Balzac  was  born  at  Tours  on  May  20,  1799,  the 
son  of  a  barrister,  whose  princip.il passion  seems  to  have  been 
for  a  longevity  that  would  let  him  reap  the  benefit  of  a 
tontine.  Balzac  went  to  school  at  Venddme,  but  he  was  a 
delicate,  rather  slow  child,  and  had  to  be  removed.  Later, 
when  his  family  came  to  Paris,  he  studied  law  at  the 
Sor bonne,  and  then  worked  in  a  notary's  office.  In  1820  his 
family  returned  to  the  country,  and  Balzac,  who  had 
rebelled  from  the  law  and  was  writing  in  a  garret  on  the 
smallest  conceivable  allowance,  remained,  to  make  himself 
a  novelist.  Until  1829  he  had  published  nothing  worth 
reading,  but  had  spent  his  time  writing  second-rate  stories 
something  after  the  manner  of  Scott.  In  1829  he  published 
Les  Chouans,  the  first  book  he  signed,  and  from  that  time  on 
his  writings  count  in  the  Works  of  the  Balzac  we  know. 
He  fell  in  love  with  a  Countess  Hanska,  and,  even  in 
his  busiest  periods,  was  ready  to  make  journeys  half  across 
Europe  to  see  her  for  a  moment.  After  her  husband  died 
she  hesitated  a  little  and  married  Balzac,  after  an  engage- 
ment that  had  lasted  many  years,  five  months  before  his 
death  on  August  20,  1850.  Among  the  most  famous  of  his 
novels  in  his  huge  series  La  Comedie  Humaine,  are  La 
Peau  de  Chagrin,  1831  ;  Le  Me*decin  de  Campagne,  1833  ; 

iz 


x  SUMMARISED  CHRONOLOGY 

Eugenie  Grandet,  1834  ;  La  Recherche  de  PAbsolu,  1834; 
Le  Pere  Goriot,  1835;  La  Cousine  Bette,  1846;  Le 
Cousin  Pons,  1847.  The  series  contains  over  fifty  stories 
illustrating  Private,  Provincial,  Parisian,  Military  and 
Political  Life,  as  well  as  stories  that  he  classified  as 
philosophic  and  analytical  studies.  He  also  wrote  a  number 
of  plays,  not  at  all  successful,  and  three  volumes  of  Contes 
Drolatiques  in  the  French  of  the  sixteenth  century,  pre- 
serving not  only  the  indecency  but  the  more  generally 
admirable  qualities  that  belonged  to  story-tellers  of  that 
time. 


INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY 

BALZAC  used  to  tell  a  story  of  his  father,  who,  when 
asked  to  carve  a  partridge,  not  knowing  how  to  set 
about  it,  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  gripped  his  knife  and 
fork,  and  cut  it  in  four  with  such  energy  as  to  cleave 
the  plate  at  the  same  time  and  embed  the  knife  in  the 
table.  That  was  the  manner  of  setting  about  things 
natural  to  Balzac  himself.  He  was  a  '  joyous  wild  boar ' 
of  a  man,  with  the  build  and  strength  of  a  navvy.  He 
was  never  ill.  Gautier  tells  us  that  the  habitual  ex- 
pression of  that  powerful  face  was  a  kind  of  Rabelaisian 
glee.  Now  a  man  who  could  write  the  Comedie 
Humaine,  and  look  aside  from  it  with  a  Rabelaisian 
glee  was  perhaps  the  only  kind  of  man  who  could  have 
attempted  such  a  task  without  being  turned,  willy  nilly, 
into  a  pedant. 

There  was  a  logic,  a  completeness  in  the  groundwork 
of  the  scheme,  that  would  have  sterilised  the  imagina- 
tion of  a  man  with  less  exuberant  vitality.  Compare 
for  a  moment  the  Comedie  Humaine  with  the  novels  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott.  Scott  meant  to  Balzac  what  Maria 
Edgeworth  had  meant  to  himself.  He  had  seen  in  her 
an  attempt  to  paint  Irish  country  and  character,  and 


xii  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY 

had  decided  to  do  the  same  for  Scotland.  Balzac 
after  those  ten  years  of  bad  mediaeval  stories,  those  ten 
years  of  labour  for  the  Rachel  of  his  own  soul,  saw  in 
him  an  attempt  to  paint  Scottish  country  and  character, 
and  decided  to  do  the  same  for  France.  But,  whereas 
Scott  had  been  brought  up  on  the  '  Reliques  of  English 
Poetry,'  and  in  the  country  of  purple  heather,  grey  rock 
and  leaping  stream,  Balzac  was  nourished  on  philosophy 
and  science,  and  spent  his  youth  in  a  Paris  lodging. 
Scott  saw  men  rather  than  kinds  of  man.  Bailie 
Nicol  Jarvie  is  more  Nicol  Jarvie  than  Bailie.  Balzac 
comes  at  life  in  a  much  more  scientific  spirit. 
'  Does  not  Society  make  of  man,'  he  asks,  { as 
many  different  men  as  there  are  varieties  in  zoology? 
The  differences  between  a  soldier,  a  labourer,  an 
administrator,  an  idler,  a  savant,  a  statesman,  a  mer- 
chant, a  sailor,  a  poet,  a  pauper,  a  priest,  are,  though 
more  difficult  to  seize,  as  considerable  as  those  that 
distinguish  the  wolf,  the  lion,  the  ass,  the  crow,  the 
shark,  the  sea  calf,  the  goat,  etc.'  Balzac  made  up 
his  mind  to  collect  specimens  of  the  social  species, 
not  pressed  and  dried,  like  the  old  'Characters'  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  but  exhibited  alive  and  in 
their  natural  surroundings.  He  was  to  make  a  world 
with  the  colour  of  contemporary  France,  an  '  august  lie, 
true  in  its  details,'  a  world  complete  in  itself,  a  world  in 
which  all  the  characters  were  to  show  the  impress  of 
that  state  of  life  to  which  it  should  please  Balzac  to  call 
them.  That  was  the  idea  that  turned  the  Waverley 


INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY  xiii 

Novels  into  the  Comldie  Humaine,  that  the  idea  whose 
exposition  by  a  less  full-blooded  professor  would  have 
been  so  readily  precise,  so  readily  dull  in  its  precision. 

Now  there  are  few  harder  tasks  for  a  man  of  over- 
flowing physical  energy  than  this,  of  covering  innumer- 
able sheets  of  paper  with  wriggling  precise  lines  traced 
with  the  end  of  a  pen.  It  is  likely  to  become  a 
torment ;  the  feet  cross  and  uncross,  the  fingers  itch, 
the  inkpot  flies  across  the  room,  and  the  energy 
defeats  itself.  There  is  the  legend  of  Scott's  hand, 
covering  sheet  after  sheet  so  swiftly  and  with  such 
regularity  that  it  was  painful  to  watch  it ;  but  Scott's 
was  not  the  bomb-like  brute  energy  of  Balzac.  Balzac, 
to  give  life  to  his  scientific  ideas,  needed  a  more  fiery 
vitality  than  Scott's,  who  began  and  ended  with 
merely  human  notions.  The  actual  writing  of  his 
books  was  proportionately  more  difficult  for  him. 
There  was  no  mere  eccentricity  in  his  habit  of  getting 
the  sketches  for  his  books  set  up  in  type,  and  enlarg- 
ing them  from  proofs  in  the  middle  of  large  sheets  of 
paper,  covering  the  vast  margins  with  the  additions 
that  were  to  make  the  books  themselves.  It  was  a 
wise  attempt  to  give  himself  the  same  physical  outlet 
as  that  enjoyed  by  the  painter  or  sculptor,  to  give 
himself  something  to  pull  about,  something  actual, 
something  that  could  be  attacked,  anything  rather  than 
the  terrible  silkworm  spinning  of  a  single  endless  fibre. 
His  energy  would  have  been  wasted  in  a  hundred  ways 
unless,  so  far  as  was  possible,  he  had  fitted  his  work  to 


xiv  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY 

himself  and  himself  to  his  work.  Giant  of  concentra- 
tion as  he  was,  he  added  cubits  to  his  stature  by  taking 
thought.  He  made  his  writing  hours  different  from 
every  one  else's,  wore  a  white  frock  something  like  a 
monk's  habit,  and  found  in  the  drinking  of  enormous 
quantities  of  coffee  a  stimulant  as  much  theatrical  as 
medicinal.  These  things  meant  much  to  him,  and  his 
use  of  them  was  an  action  similar  to  that  of  Poe's 
schoolboy,  who,  when  guessing  odd  or  even  the 
marbles  in  his  playmate's  hand,  would  imitate  the 
expression  of  his  adversary's  face  and  see  what  thoughts 
arose  in  his  mind.  The  paraphernalia  of  work  were 
likely  to  induce  the  proper  spirit.  When  all  his 
fellow  Parisians  were  in  bed,  Balzac,  gathering  the 
voluminous  white  folds  about  his  sturdy  person,  and 
glancing  at  the  coffee  stewing  on  the  fire,  sat  down 
to  his  writing-table  with  the  conviction  of  an  alderman 
sitting  down  to  a  city  dinner.  There  could  never  be 
a  doubt  in  his  mind  as  to  the  purpose  for  which  he 
was  there. 

This  navvy-work  of  production  had  its  influence  on 
the  character  of  his  writing.  But  it  was  never  in 
Balzac's  nature  to  have  understood  Gautier's  craftsman's 
delight  in  the  polishing  and  chasing  of  diminutive 
things.  Balzac,  the  working  machine,  was  simply 
enormous  energy  so  coaxed  and  trained  as  to  produce 
an  enormous  output.  The  raw  material  of  his  rich 
humanity  passed  through  violent  processes.  It  had 
but  small  chance  of  any  very  delicate  finish.  Balzac 


INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY  xv 

thought  in  books  and  in  cycles  of  books,  never  in 
pages,  paragraphs  or  sentences.  Although  he  was 
much  preoccupied  with  '  style/  envying  the  men  whose 
writing  would  be  charming  to  the  ear  even  if  it  meant 
nothing  to  the  mind,  the  best  of  his  own  prose  is  un- 
beautiful,  rugged,  fiercely  energetic,  peculiarly  his  own, 
and  therefore  not  to  be  grumbled  at.  He  would 
have  liked  to  write  finely,  just  as  he  would  have  liked 
la  vie  splendide.  But  his  mind,  delivering  pickaxe 
blows,  or  furiously  wrestling  with  great  masses  of 
material,  could  not  clothe  itself  in  stately  periods. 
Always,  out  of  any  splendour  that  he  made  for  it, 
shows  a  brown,  brawny  arm,  and  the  splendour  be- 
comes an  impertinence.  He  had  ideas  on  art,  as  he 
had  ideas  on  science,  but  his  was  too  large  a  humanity 
to  allow  itself  to  be  subordinate  to  either.  He  was 
too  full-blooded  a  man  to  be  withered  by  a  theory. 
He  was  too  eager  to  say  what  he  had  in  his  mouth 
to  be  patient  in  the  modulation  of  his  voice.  He 
was  almost  too  much  of  a  man  to  be  an  artist.  To 
think  of  that  man  fashioning  small  perfect  poems, 
who  avowed  that  he  wrote  his  Contes  Drblatiques 
because  he  happened  to  notice  the  fall  in  the  French 
birth  rate,  is  to  think  of  a  Colossus  tinkering  at  the 
mechanism  of  a  watch. 

Then,  too,  he  had  been  too  close  to  life  to  think  of 
art  for  art's  sake.  During  the  years  that  followed  his 
setting  up  author  in  a  garret,  he  had  watched  the 
existence  of  those  who  are  so  near  starvation  that  they 


xvi  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY 

seem  to  make  a  living  by  sweeping  the  doorstep  of 
Death.  And,  at  the  same  time  that,  walking  out  in 
the  evenings,  and  following  a  workman  and  his  wife 
on  their  way  home,  he  had  been  able  to  feel  their  rags 
upon  his  back,  and  to  walk  with  their  broken  shoes 
upon  his  feet,  he  had  also  had  his  glimpses  of  la  vie  sphn- 
didet  the  more  vivid,  no  doubt,  for  their  contrast  with 
the  sober  realities  he  knew.  To  this  man,  however  great 
a  writer  he  might  become,  life  would  always  mean  more 
than  books.  It  always  did.  He  could  cut  short  other 
people's  lamentations  by  saying,  '  Well,  but  let  us  talk 
of  real  things ;  let  us  talk  of  Eugenie  Grandet,'  but 
Eugenie  Grandet,  the  miser's  daughter,  interested  him 
much  more  than  the  mere  novel  of  that  name.  His 
people  never  existed  for  the  sake  of  his  books,  but 
always  his  books  for  the  sake  of  his  people.  He  makes 
a  story  one-legged  or  humpbacked  without  scruple,  so 
long  as  by  doing  so  he  can  make  his  readers  see  a 
man  and  his  circumstances  exactly  as  they  appeared  to 
himself.  He  was  not,  like  a  pure  artist,  an  instru- 
ment on  which  life  played,  producing  beautiful  things. 
His  concern  with  life  was  always  positive.  His  world 
was  not  a  world  of  dream  and  patterned  imagery,  but, 
according  to  his  mood,  was  an  elaborate  piece  of 
mechanism  and  he  an  impassioned  mechanician,  or  a 
zoological  garden  and  he  an  impassioned  zoologist. 
It  is  almost  matter  for  wonder  that  such  a  man  should 
choose  to  express  himself  in  narrative. 

And  yet  the  novel,  as  he  conceived  it,  gave  him  the 


INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY  xvii 

best  of  opportunities  for  putting  his  results  before  the 
world.  If  we  allow  ourselves  to  set  all  our  attention 
on  politics  and  finance  and  social  theory,  we  lose  in 
life  all  but  the  smell  of  blue-books,  and  the  grey 
colour  of  Stock  Exchange  returns.  If  Balzac  had 
written  science,  and  not  stories,  we  should  have  only 
had  the  ideas  of  his  novels  without  that  passionate 
presentment  of  concrete  things  that  gives  those  ideas 
their  vitality.  Indeed,  the  novels  are  far  greater  than 
the  ideas,  just  as  the  poetic,  seeing  man  in  Balzac  was 
greater  than  the  scientist.  Weariless  in  distinguishing 
man  from  man,  type  from  type,  specimen  from  specimen, 
by  the  slightest  indication  of  the  clay,  he  was  able  in 
novels,  as  he  could  never  have  done  in  works  of  science, 
to  give  the  colour  of  each  man's  life  expressed  in  his 
actions,  in  his  talk,  in  his  choice  of  clothes,  in  the 
furniture  of  his  room.  The  action  of  all  novels,  like 
that  of  all  plays,  is  performed  in  the  brain  of  the 
reader  or  spectator.  The  novelists'  and  dramatists' 
characters  are  like  pieces  on  a  chessboard,  symbols  of 
possibilities  not  obviously  expressed.  In  older  fiction 
these  possibilities  were  left  so  vague  that  the  reader 
could  adopt  any  part  he  chose,  without  in  the  least 
interfering  with  the  story,  independent  as  that  was  of 
personal  character.  Never  before  Balzac  made  them 
had  the  chessmen  assumed  so  much  of  human  detail. 
In  his  books  they  are  no  longer  pegs  of  wood,  depend- 
ing for  their  meanings  on  the  reader's  generosity,  for 
their  adventures  on  the  ingenuity  of  the  author.  They 

B 


xviii  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY 

make  their  moves  in  their  own  rights.  The  hero  of  a 
Balzac  novel  is  not  the  reader,  in  borrowed  clothes, 
undergoing  a  series  of  quite  arbitrary  experiences.  He 
cannot  be  made  to  do  what  the  author  requires,  but 
fills  his  own  suits,  and  has  a  private  life.  Balzac  knows 
and  makes  his  reader  feel  that  his  characters  have  not 
leapt  ready-made  into  the  world  to  eat  and  drink 
through  a  couple  of  hundred  pages  and  vanish  whence 
they  came.  They  have  left  their  mark  on  things,  and 
things  have  left  their  mark  on  them.  They  have  lived 
in  pages  where  he  has  not  seen  them,  and  Balzac  never 
drags  them  to  take  a  part  in  existences  to  which  they 
do  not  belong.  I  can  remember  no  case  where  Balzac 
uses  a  stock  scene,  a  room,  or  a  garden,  or  a  valley 
that  would  do  for  anything.  There  was  only  one  room, 
one  valley,  one  garden,  where  the  characters  could 
have  said  those  words,  lost  that  money,  or  kissed  those 
kisses,  and  Balzac's  stupendous  energy  is  equal  not 
only  to  pouring  life  into  his  people,  but  also  to  forcing 
the  particular  scene  upon  his  canvas  with  such  vivid 
strokes  that  every  cobble  seems  to  have  a  heart,  and 
every  flower  in  a  pot  to  sway  its  blossoms  with  the 
sun.  Even  in  the  short  stories,  where  he  often  follows 
gods  that  are  not  his  own,  writing  of  madness  like  a 
Hoffman,  and  of  intrigue  like  a  Boccaccio,  his  peculiar 
genius  is  apparent  in  the  environments.  How  care- 
fully, in  The  Atheisfs  Mass,  he  works  out  the  condi- 
tions of  life  that  made  the  story  possible  for  its  actors. 
And,  in  the  longer  novels,  there  is  scarcely  a  sentence 


INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY  xix 

unweighted  with  evidence  that  is  of  real  import  to 
him  who  would  truly  understand  the  characters  and 
happenings  of  the  book.  How  much  does  not  the 
story  of  Eugtnie  Grandet  owe  to  that  description  of 
the  little  money-getting,  vine-growing  town  of  Saumur, 
with  its  cobbled  streets,  its  old  houses,  its  greedy  faces 
watching  the  weather  from  the  house  doors,  the  only 
proper  setting  for  the  narrow  power  of  Goodman 
Grandet,  and  the  leaden  monotony  of  his  daughter's 
life? 

Balzac's  fierce  determination  that  his  lies  should  be 
true  in  their  details  has  often  been  remarked  in  claim- 
ing him  as  the  first  of  the  French  realists.  And, 
indeed,  other  of  his  characteristics,  his  interest  in  life 
as  it  is,  the  scientific  bias  that  found  its  parody  in 
Zola,  his  fearlessness  in  choice  of  subject,  his  entire 
freedom  from  classical  ideals,  are  certainly  attributes 
of  realism.  Realism  is  ready,  like  Balzac,  to  deal  with 
stock  exchanges  and  bakeries  and  all  the  side  shops 
of  'civilisation ;  realism  finds  Greek  Greek  and  not  an 
Elixir  of  Life;  realism  tries  to  see  life  as  it  is.  But 
realism  (an  impossible  ideal)  needs  for  its  approximate 
attainment  a  man  of  ordinary  energy ;  and  this  Balzac 
was  not.  Balzac  used  Thor's  hammer,  not  one  from  the 
carpenter's  shop.  He  lived  like  ten  men  and  so  do  his 
characters.  A  crossing  sweeper  in  a  story  by  Balzac 
would  wear  out  his  broom  in  half  an  hour,  but  the 
broom  of  a  crossing  sweeper  of  de  Maupassant  or 
Flaubert  would  be  certain  of  an  average  life.  Balzac's 


xx  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY 

world  is  not  the  world  of  realism,  because  it  goes  too 
fast,  like  a  clock  without  a  pendulum  running  at  full 
speed.  His  world  is  more  alive  than  ours,  and  so  are 
his  men.  They  are  demons,  men  carried  to  the  «th 
power.  Fire  runs  in  their  veins  instead  of  blood,  and 
we  watch  them  with  something  like  terror,  as  if  we  were 
peeping  into  hell.  They  are  superhuman  like  Balzac 
himself,  and  have  become  a  kind  of  lesser  divinities. 
None  but  he  would  have  dared  '  to  frame  their  fearful 
symmetry.'  None  but  they  could  so  well  have  illus- 
trated existence  as  Balzac  saw  it. 

And  life,  as  this  Rabelaisian  Frenchman  saw  it,  in 
the  chaotic  years  of  the  nineteenth  century,  was  a 
terrible  thing  except  to  the  blind  and  the  numbed,  and 
to  those  who,  like  himself,  possessed  '  unconquerable 
souls.'  He  found  two  primary  motives  in  existence. 
Passion  and  the  production  of  children  was  one.  He 
said  that  this  was  the  only  one.  But  his  life  and  his 
work  made  it  clear  that  there  was  another,  and  that  this 
other  was  money.  Money,  the  need  of  it,  the  spending 
of  it,  fantastic  but  always  acute  plans  for  getting  hold 
of  it,  like  that  suggested  in  Farino  Cane,  filled  his  own 
life,  and  were  not  banished  even  from  his  love-letters. 
His  own  obsession  by  debts  and  business  forced  on 
him  as  a  novelist  a  new  way  of  looking  at  life,  and, 
through  him,  gave  another  outlook  to  storytelling.  In 
the  older  novels,  Fielding's  for  example,  rich  are  rich, 
and  poor  are  poor,  and  only  to  be  changed  from  one 
to  the  other  by  some  calamity  or  fairy  godmother  of 


INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY  xxi 

a  coincidence.  People  were  static ;  unless  they  turned 
out  to  be  Somebody's  illegitimate  son  or  rightful  heir, 
their  clothes  were  not  of  a  finer  cut  as  they  grew 
older,  and  if  they  ate  off  wooden  platters  in  the  first 
chapter,  they  supped  no  more  daintily  in  the  last.  In 
romantic  tales  and  fairy  stories,  a  hero  might  cut  his 
way  to  fortune  through  dragons  or  piratical  Turks ;  in 
the  rogue  novels  he  might  swindle  a  dinner,  and  after 
long  switchbacking  between  twopence  and  nothing, 
happen  by  accident  upon  a  competence;  he  never, 
before  Balzac  took  him  in  hand,  went  grimly  at  life, 
closing  his  heart,  concentrating  his  energies,  compel- 
ling even  love  to  help  him  in  his  steady  climb  from 
poverty  to  opulence.  He  left  that  to  the  villain,  and 
the  storyteller  took  care  that  the  villain  eventually  got 
his  deserts.  The  older  novelists  were  vastly  interested 
in  the  progress  of  a  love-affair ;  Balzac  looks  kindly  at 
that,  but  his  real  interest  is  in  the  progress  of  a  financial 
superman.  The  wealth  and  poverty  of  Balzac's  char- 
acters is  the  quality  that  makes  or  breaks  them.  The 
mainspring  of  their  actions  is  the  desire  of  getting  on 
in  life.  What  is  the  tragedy  of  Eugenie  Grandet,  but 
money?  What  is  the  tragedy  of  Pere  Goriot,  but 
money?  Eliminate  wealth  and  poverty  from  either 
of  them  and  they  cease  to  exist.  If  old  Goriot  had 
been  rich  and  indulgent  to  his  daughters  he  would 
have  been  an  estimable  father ;  but  he  is  poor ;  his 
daughters  must  be  luxurious,  and  so  he  is  Pere  Goriot. 
The  story  is  that  of  Lear  and  his  kingdom  translated 


xxii  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY 

into  hundred  franc  notes  and  lacking  the  Cordelia. 
Love,  Wisdom,  Gentleness  are  inconsequent  dreamers 
in  a  house  of  Mammon.  They  talk  in  window  corners 
and  behind  curtains,  ashamed  of  their  disinterestedness, 
They  are  like  the  old  Gods  banished  from  the  temples, 
whispering  in  secret  places  in  the  woods,  and  going 
abroad  quietly  in  the  twilight,  while  in  the  glare  of  noon 
the  clanking  brazen  giant  strides  heavily  across  the 
world. 

'  And  underneath  his  feet,  all  scattered  lay 
Dead    skulls  and    bones   of   men,   whose    life  had 
gone  astray.1 

ARTHUR  RANSOME. 


THE  UNKNOWN   MASTERPIECE 

To  a  Lord 

1845. 
I.  GILLETTE 

TOWARDS  the  end  of  the  year  1612,  on  a  cold  December 
morning,  a  young  man  in  very  threadbare  garments  was 
walking  up  and  down  before  the  door  of  a  house  in  the 
Rue  des  Grands-Augustins  in  Paris.  When  he  grew 
tired  of  his  irresolute  to  and  fro — as  irresolute  as  that  of 
a  lover  who  dares  not  to  present  himself  before  his  first 
mistress,  however  facile  she  may  be — he  ended  by 
crossing  the  threshold,  and  asked  if  Master  Francois 
Porbus  was  in  his  rooms.  Upon  an  affirmative  reply 
from  an  old  woman  who  was  sweeping  out  a  ground- 
floor  apartment,  the  young  man  went  slowly  upstairs, 
stopping  at  every  step,  like  a  newly  accredited  courtier 
who  is  uneasy  about  his  reception  by  the  King.  When 
he  reached  the  top  of  the  spiral  staircase,  he  hesitated 
a  while  on  the  landing,  uncertain  whether  or  no  he 
should  use  the  grotesque  knocker  that  decorated  the 
door  of  the  studio  wherein,  as  he  conjectured,  was  at 
that  moment  working  Henri  rv.'s  painter,  now  thrown 
over  for  Rubens  by  Marie  de  Medicis. 


2  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

The  young  man  was  feeling  that  profound  emotion 
which  must  have  stirred  in  the  heart  of  many  a  great 
artist  when,  in  the  prime  of  his  youth  and  his  passion 
for  Art,  he  first  encountered  a  man  of  genius  or  a 
masterpiece.  In  all  human  sentiments  there  exists 
this  primal  efflorescence,  engendered  by  a  noble 
enthusiasm  which  grows  ever  weaker  and  weaker  until 
at  last  joy  is  but  a  memory,  and  glory  a  lie.  Among 
these  frail  emotions,  none  is  so  akin  to  love  as  the 
young  passion  of  an  artist  beginning  the  exquisite 
torture  of  his  glorious  and  lamentable  career — a  passion 
compact  of  boldness  and  timidity,  of  vague  faith  and 
certain  discouragement.  If  such  an  one,  poor  in 
worldly  gear,  yet  all  a-bud  with  genius,  has  not  thus 
keenly  thrilled  at  his  introduction  to  a  master,  there 
will  be  lacking  some  heartfelt  note,  some  indescribable 
touch — a  sentiment,  a  poetic  feeling,  I  know  not  what 
— in  all  his  work.  There  may  be  a  few  inflated 
blusterers  who  never  have  had  any  doubt  about  their 
future,  but  only  fools  will  reckon  them  among  the  wise. 
At  any  rate,  our  young  acquaintance  was  apparently 
not  without  true  merit,  if  talent  is  to  be  measured  by 
this  initiatory  timidity — the  indefinable  modesty  which 
those  whom  fame  awaits  can  throw  off  as  soon  as  they 
come  to  exercise  their  art,  just  as  pretty  women  can 
throw  off  theirs  when  they  are  in  full  flight  of  coquetry. 
Habitual  triumph  diminishes  doubt — and  modesty  is, 
perhaps,  a  form  of  doubt. 

Overwhelmed  with  distress  and,  now  that  it  had  come 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE  3 

to  the  point,  astounded  at  his  own  presumption,  the 
poor  neophyte  would  never  have  intruded  himself  on 
the  painter  to  whom  we  owe  our  admirable  portrait  of 
Henri  iv.,  if  chance  had  not  now  sent  him  a  surprising 
helper.  An  old  man  had  just  come  up  the  stairs.  By 
the  eccentricity  of  his  dress,  the  magnificence  of  his 
lace  lappets,  and  the  absolute  self-confidence  of  his 
demeanour,  the  youth  divined  in  him  either  a  patron  or 
a  friend  of  the  painter  ;  he  drew  back  to  make  room  on 
the  landing,  and  scrutinised  the  new  comer  closely, 
hoping  to  discover  in  him  the  kindliness  of  the  artist, 
or  else  that  good-nature  characteristic  of  those  who 
love  the  arts — but  instead  he  perceived  not  only  some- 
thing diabolical  about  the  face  but,  as  well,  the 
peculiar,  enigmatic  quality  so  alluring  to  an  artist. 
Imagine  a  bald  and  bulging  brow,  very  prominent, 
sticking  out  above  a  little  snub  nose  like  that  of 
Rabelais  or  Socrates  ;  mocking,  shrivelled  lips,  a  short 
chin,  haughtily  lifted,  and  set  off  by  a  grey  pointed 
beard,  sea-green  eyes  which  might  look  dimmed  by 
age,  but  which,  nevertheless,  so  brilliant  were  the  jewel- 
like  whites,  could  doubtless  flash  green  lightning  in  mo- 
ments of  anger  or  enthusiasm.  For  the  rest,  the  face  had 
been  singularly  ravaged  by  the  years,  and  still  more  by 
such  thoughts  as  undermine  both  soul  and  body.  The 
eyelashes  were  gone;  and  the  eyebrows,  above  the 
deep  sockets,  were  barely  traceable.  Set  this  head 
upon  a  thin  and  fragile  body,  surround  it  with  lace  of 
dazzling  whiteness  and  intricate  device — such  device  as 


4  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

one  sees  on  a  fish-carver ;  throw  over  the  black  doublet 
a  heavy  golden  chain — and  you  will  have  some  idea  of 
the  personage  who  now  loomed  fantastically  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  staircase.  One  might  have  thought  that  a 
Rembrandt  canvas  had  walked  out  of  its  frame,  and 
was  now  moving  noiselessly  in  the  tenebrous  atmo- 
sphere which  that  great  painter  has  made  his  own.  The 
old  man  cast  a  piercing  glance  at  the  young  one, 
knocked  thrice  at  the  door,  and  said  to  a  delicate-look- 
ing man  of  about  forty,  who  opened  it : 

'Good-day,  Master.' 

Porbus  bowed  respectfully.  He  let  our  young  friend 
in  also,  supposing  that  the  visitor  had  brought  him,  and 
taking  him  all  the  more  for  granted,  because  the  neo- 
phyte was  held  fast  in  the  spell  to  which  all  born 
painters  succumb  at  their  first  sight  of  a  studio — that 
initiation  into  the  material  processes  of  art.  An  open 
window  in  the  roof  lit  Master  Porbus's  studio.  The 
light  was  concentrated  on  the  easel,  where  hung  a 
canvas  as  yet  untouched  by  more  than  three  or  four 
white  marks ;  the  corners  of  the  vast  room  were  in  pro- 
found darkness,  but  some  stray  reflections,  amid  the 
russet  gloom,  played  upon  the  rounded  parts  of  an  old 
German  cuirass  which  swung  from  the  wall,  struck  with 
a  capricious  gleam  the  carved  and  polished  cornice  of 
an  antique  dresser  loaded  with  curious  vessels,  and 
pricked  with  glittering  dots  the  heavy  tracery  of  some 
ancient  gold  brocade  curtains,  still  in  their  worn  rich 
folds,  which  were  thrown  here  and  there  and  used  as 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE  5 

models  for  drapery.  Anatomical  models  in  plaster, 
fragments  and  torsos  of  antique  goddesses,  lovingly 
polished  by  the  kisses  of  the  ages,  strewed  the  shelves 
and  tables.  Innumerable  sketches,  studies  in  three 
crayons,  in  sanguine,  or  in  pen-and-ink,  covered  the 
walls  to  the  very  ceiling.  Boxes  of  colours,  bottles  of 
oil  and  of  essence,  overturned  stools,  left  but  a  narrow 
path  to  the  place  where  the  ring  of  light  was  thrown 
from  the  high  window.  Its  beams  fell  full  upon  the 
pale  face  of  Porbus  and  the  ivory-like  pate  of  his  strange 
visitor.  The  young  man's  attention  was  soon  wholly 
arrested  by  a  picture  which  even  in  that  troubled  and 
revolutionary  age,  had  already  become  famous,  so  much 
so  as  to  be  the  object  of  many  visits  from  some  of  those 
steadfast  enthusiasts  who  keep  the  Sacred  Fire  alive  for 
us  in  evil  days.  This  fine  piece  represented  a  Marie 
Egyptienne  preparing  to  pay  for  her  transit  across  the 
water.  It  was  a  masterpiece,  painted  for  Marie  de 
Medicis,  and  sold  by  her  in  the  days  of  her  distress. 

4  I  like  your  saint,'  said  the  old  man  to  Porbus,  'and 
I  would  pay  you  ten  golden  crowns  above  the  Queen's 
price  for  it ;  but  get  in  her  way — devil  take  me,  no  ! ' 

4  You  approve  of  it,  then  ? ' 

4  H'm  h'm  ! '  said  the  other,  '  approve  of  it  ...  yes 
and  no.  The  good  lady  is  fairly  well  put  together,  but 
she 's  not  alive.  You  fellows  think  you  've  done  the 
whole  trick  when  you've  drawn  a  form  correctly  and 
set  everything  in  its  right  anatomical  place !  Then 
you  colour  it  up  with  a  flesh-tone  that 's  sitting  ready- 


6  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

made  on  your  palette,  taking  care  to  keep  one  side 
darker  than  the  other;  and  because  you  glance  now 
and  again  at  a  naked  woman  standing  on  a  table,  you 
think  you've  copied  Nature,  you  imagine  you're 
painters  and  have  found  out  all  God's  secrets !  .  .  . 
P-r-r !  Great  poets  aren't  made  by  knowing  all  about 
syntax  and  avoiding  grammatical  mistakes.  Just  look 
at  your  saint,  Porbus.  At  first  sight,  she  seems 
admirable ;  but  then  one  looks  again,  and  behold  !  she 's 
fast  stuck  to  the  back  of  the  canvas  —  you  couldn't 
possibly  walk  round  her  body.  She 's  a  silhouette  with 
only  one  face,  she 's  a  canvas  apparition,  she 's  an  image 
that  can't  stir,  that  can't  move.  I  feel  no  air  between 
that  arm  and  the  field  you've  painted;  space  and 
depth  are  out  of  it — oh,  it 's  quite  correct  in  perspective, 
and  the  gradation  of  tone  is  closely  observed,  but  for 
all  your  laudable  efforts,  nothing  will  make  me  believe 
that  that  handsome  body  is  warmed  by  the  breath  of 
life.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  I  put  my  hand  on  that 
admirably  rounded  neck,  I  should  find  it  as  cold  as 
marble.  No,  my  friend  !  the  blood  isn't  coursing  under 
that  ivory  skin,  life  isn't  swelling  with  its  crimson  flood 
those  veins,  those  fibres,  so  cunningly  interlaced 
beneath  the  warm  transparence  of  the  temples  and  the 
breast.  One  place  may  palpitate — another  doesn't; 
life  and  death  are  fighting  for  every  detail :  here,  it 's  a 
woman;  there,  a  statue;  somewhere  else,  a  corpse. 
Your  creation  is  incomplete.  You  haven't  succeeded 
in  breathing  more  than  a  part  of  your  soul  into  your 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE  7 

cherished  work.  The  torch  of  Prometheus  went  out 
more  than  once  in  your  hands — ever  so  many  places 
in  your  picture  are  quite  untouched  by  the  celestial 
flame.' 

'  But  how  has  it  happened,  dear  Master  ? '  Porbus 
answered  respectfully,  though  the  young  stranger  had 
great  difficulty  in  keeping  his  hands  off  the  little  old 
man. 

'  Ah,  there  you  are  ! '  he  now  replied.  '  It 's  because 
you've  hovered  irresolutely  between  two  systems — 
between  drawing  and  painting — between  the  phleg- 
matic meticulosity,  the  stiff  precision  of  the  old  German 
masters,  and  the  glowing  ardour,  the  felicitous  fecundity 
of  the  Italians.  You  tried  to  imitate  at  one  and  the 
same  moment  Hans  Holbein  and  Titian,  Albrecht 
Diirer  and  Paul  Veronese.  Undoubtedly  a  fine  am- 
bition !  But  behold  the  result.  You  have  neither  the 
rigid  charm  of  the  plain  statement,  nor  the  illusive 
magic  of  chiaroscuro.  Here,  like  a  fusing  bronze  that 
bursts  its  mould,  Titian's  rich  golden  colour  smashes  to 
bits  the  meagre  Albrecht  Diirer-line  within  which  you  've 
tried  to  confine  it.  But  here  again,  the  line  has  held 
firm  and  pent  up  the  magnificent  overflowings  of 
those  splendid  Venetian  colours.  And  so  your  figure  is 
neither  consummately  drawn,  nor  consummately  painted; 
but  shows  in  every  part  the  marks  of  your  unfortunate 
irresolution.  If  you  didn't  feel  yourself  capable  of 
fusing  the  rival  methods  in  the  fire  of  your  genius,  you 
ought  to  have  plumped  boldly  for  one  or  the  other, 


8  THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

thus  obtaining  that  unity  which  simulates  one  of  the 
aspects  of  life.  You  're  truthful  only  in  your  middles,  so 
to  speak;  your  contours  are  false — they  neither  lose 
themselves  nor  suggest  anything  behind  them.  There 's 
truth  here,'  he  continued,  pointing  to  the  saint's  breast 
.  .  .  '  and  here,'  indicating  the  outline  of  the  shoulder. 
'But  there,'  he  added,  returning  to  the  neck,  'all  is 
wrong.  Well,  we  'd  best  analyse  no  more ;  it  would 
drive  you  to  despair.' 

The  old  man  sat  down  on  a  stool,  took  his  head 
between  his  hands,  and  fell  silent. 

'  Master,'  said  Porbus,  '  I  studied  that  neck  very 
carefully  in  the  nude;  but,  unfortunately  for  us, 
Nature  sometimes  has  effects  which  seem  fantastic  on 
canvas ' 

'The  mission  of  Art  is  not  to  copy  Nature,  but  to 
express  her  !  You  're  not  a  wretched  copyist — you  're 
a  poet ! '  cried  the  old  man  eagerly,  cutting  Porbus 
short  with  a  despotic  gesture.  'A  sculptor  isn't  a 
sculptor  because  he  runs  a  woman's  form  into  a  cast,  is 
he  ?  If  you  think  so,  try  to  cast  your  mistress's  hand, 
and  set  it  up  in  front  of  you — what  will  you  see  ?  A 
horrible  lump  of  dead  flesh,  utterly  unlike  the  original ; 
you  will  be  forced  to  use  the  chisel  of  the  man  who, 
without  exactly  copying  you  the  thing,  will  give  you 
its  movement  and  its  life.  We  have  to  catch  the  spirit, 
the  soul,  the  physiognomy  of  things  and  beings. 
Effects  !  effects !  they  're  the  accidents  of  life,  not  life 
itself.  A  hand — since  I  've  taken  that  as  my  text — a 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE  9 

hand  isn't  merely  a  thing  that  belongs  to  a  body ;  it 
expresses  and  develops  a  thought,  and  that  thought 
we  've  got  to  capture  and  render.  Neither  the  painter 
nor  the  poet  nor  the  sculptor  may  separate  the  effect  from 
the  cause — the  two  are  for  ever  indissoluble.  And  that 's 
where  the  tussle  conies  in !  Some  painters  triumph 
by  instinct  without  knowing  this  canon  of  art.  You 
draw  a  woman,  but  you  don't  see  her !  That  is  not  the 
way  to  force  Nature's  shrine.  Your  hand  unconsciously 
reproduces  the  model  you  copied  when  a  pupil.  You 
don't  penetrate  far  enough  into  the  inwardness  of  form, 
you  don't  pursue  it  lovingly  into  its  details,  its  evasions. 
Beauty  is  a  stern,  exacting  thing  that  doesn't  easily 
accord  itself — you  must  await  its  chosen  hours,  watch  it, 
hold  it,  and  clasp  it  closely  to  you,  before  you  can  force 
it  to  yield  itself.  Form  is  a  Proteus  much  more  elusive 
and  much  more  cunning  than  the  Proteus  of  fable ; 
only  after  long  combat  can  you  make  it  reveal  itself  to 
you  as  it  really  is.  But  no !  you  fellows  are  content 
with  the  first  show  it  chooses  to  put  up,  or,  at  the  very 
most,  with  the  second  or  the  third — the  battle 's  not  won 
like  that !  The  Unconquerables  are  not  taken  in  by  all 
these  subterfuges — they  persevere,  persevere,  till  Nature 's 
forced  to  show  herself  in  her  nudity,  in  the  very  essence 
of  her.  That 's  what  Raphael  did,'  said  the  old  man, 
taking  off  his  velvet  cap  to  express  his  respect  for  the 
King  of  Art ;  '  his  great  superiority  arises  from  that 
intimate  perception  which,  in  him,  seems  seeking  to 
break  through  the  form.  Form,  in  his  figures,  is  what 


io         THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

it  is  in  real  life— an  interpreter,  ready  to  communicate 
to  us  ideas,  sensations,  a  whole  vast  system  of  poetry. 
Every  figure  is  a  world — the  portrait  of  a  model  seen  in 
a  sublime  vision,  coloured  by  light,  described  by  an 
inward  voice,  laid  bare  by  a  celestial  finger  pointing, 
through  the  whole  of  the  life  lived,  to  the  sources  of 
expression.  You  dress  your  women  in  handsome  gar- 
ments of  flesh,  handsome  draperies  of  hair — but  where 
is  the  blood  which  makes  them  calm  or  passionate,  or 
indeed  makes  them  anything  at  all  ?  Your  saint  is  a 
dark  woman,  my  poor  Porbus — but  you've  painted  a 
blonde  all  the  same!  Your  figures,  then,  are  simply 
poor,  coloured  phantoms ;  you  present  such  stuff  to  us, 
and  call  it  Painting  and  Art !  Because  you  've  made 
something  which  is  more  like  a  woman  than  it 's  like  a 
house,  you  imagine  you  Ve  hit  the  mark ;  and,  much 
puffed-up  at  being  no  longer  obliged  to  write  currus 
venustus  or  pulcher  homo  at  the  side,  as  the  primitive 
painters  did,  you  conceive  yourselves  to  be  wonderful 
artists.  But  you  haven't  got  there  yet,  my  fine  fellows ! 
you  '11  have  to  use  up  a  lot  of  pencils,  you  '11  have  to 
cover  a  lot  of  canvases,  before  you  're  anywhere  near 
it !  Undoubtedly,  a  woman  carries  her  head  like  that, 
holds  up  her  skirt  like  that ;  her  eyes  languish  and  melt 
with  just  such  a  sweet,  resigned  expression,  the  lashes' 
shadow  trembles  on  her  cheek — very  like,  very  like ! 
It 's  that — yet  it 's  not  that.  And  what 's  wanting  ?  A 
nothing — but  that  nothing  is  all.  You  have  the  show 
of  life,  but  you  haven't  got  its  overflow,  its  running-over, 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE          n 

that  ineffable  something  which  may  for  all  I  know  be 
the  soul,  floating  in  vapour  about  its  envelope — in 
short,  you  haven't  got  that  flower  of  life  which  Titian 
and  Raphael  somehow  seized  hold  of.  Any  one  starting 
from  the  point  you  've  reached,  would  probably  do 
excellent  work ;  but  you  all  get  tired  so  soon.  The 
vulgar  admire ;  the  true  connoisseur  smiles.  ...  O 
Mabuse,  O  my  master ! '  added  this  amazing  personage, 
'  you  're  a  thief,  you  Ve  carried  vitality  off  with  you  !  .  .  . 
For  all  that,  though,'  he  resumed,  'this  picture's  better 
than  that  rascally  Rubens's  stuff,  with  his  mountains 
of  Flemish  meat  dabbed  with  vermilion,  his  cataracts  of 
red  hair,  and  his  bluster  of  colours.  At  the  worst,  there 
are  colour,  feeling,  and  drawing — the  three  essentials  of 
Art — in  your  picture.' 

'  But  this  saint  is  sublime,  old  man ! '  the  young 
stranger  loudly  exclaimed,  issuing  from  a  profound 
reverie.  'Those  two  figures — the  saint  and  the  boat- 
man— have  a  subtlety  unknown  to  the  Italian  painters ; 
I  can't  think  of  one  of  them  who  could  have  invented 
the  indecision  of  that  boatman.' 

'Did  this  eccentric  young  person  come  with  you?' 
asked  Porbus  of  the  old  man. 

'Ah,  master  !  forgive  my  boldness,'  replied  the  blush- 
ing neophyte.  '  I  am  quite  an  obscure  person,  a  dauber 
by  instinct,  and  but  lately  arrived  in  this  town,  which  is 
the  fount  of  all  knowledge.' 

'  To  work,  then  ! '  answered  Porbus,  giving  him  a  bit 
of  red  chalk  and  a  sheet  of  paper. 
c 


12         THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

The  stranger  executed  a  swift  and  clever  copy  of  the 
Marie. 

'  Oh,  oh  ! '  cried  the  old  man.     '  What 's  your  name  ? ' 

The  youth  wrote  at  the  bottom,  '  Nicolas  Poussin.' 

'It's  not  bad  for  a  beginner,'  said  the  odd  creature 
who  had  been  holding  forth  so  tumultuously.  '  I  see 
that  one  can  talk  painting  before  you.  I  don't  blame 
you  for  having  admired  Porbus's  saint.  It 's  an  accepted 
masterpiece,  and  only  those  who  are  profoundly  initiate 
in  Art  can  see  where  it  falls  short.  But,  since  you  're 
worthy  of  the  lesson  and  capable  of  understanding  it, 
I  'm  going  to  show  how  little  is  wanting  to  its  real  com- 
pletion. Now,  be  all  eyes  and  all  attention,  for  such 
an  opportunity  may  never  occur  again.  Your  palette, 
Porbus ! ' 

Porbus  brought  palette  and  brushes.  The  little  old 
man  turned  back  his  sleeves  with  a  sharp  convulsive 
gesture,  stuck  his  thumb  in  the  palette — loaded  with  an 
immense  variety  of  tones — which  Porbus  held  to  him, 
tore,  rather  than  took,  from  the  same  hands  a  fistful  of 
many-sized  brushes,  while  his  pointed  beard  moved 
suddenly  in  violent  jerks  like  those  produced  by  an 
attack  of  amorous  passion.  As  he  charged  his  brush 
with  colour,  he  growled  between  his  teeth : 

'  These  tones  are  only  fit  to  throw  out  of  window 
after  the  man  who  composed  them,  they  're  so  disgust- 
ingly crude  and  false  !  How  could  any  one  paint  with 
this  sort  of  thing  ! ' 

Then  with  feverish  vivacity  he  dipped  the  point  of 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE          13 

the  brush  in  the  different  mounds  of  colour,  running 
through  the  entire  gamut  of  them  more  rapidly  than  a 
cathedral  organist  runs  through  the  full  extent  of  his 
diapason  in  the  O  Filii  at  Easter. 

Porbus  and  Poussin  stood  motionless  on  either  side 
of  the  canvas,  rapt  in  eager  contemplation. 

'Do  you  see,  young  man,'  said  the  other,  working 
undeviatingly,  'do  you  see  how,  by  means  of  three  or 
four  touches  and  a  little  bluish  glaze,  one  can  cause  the 
air  to  circulate  round  the  head  of  this  poor  saint,  who 
must  have  been  gasping  and  choking  in  that  heavy 
atmosphere?  See  how  this  drapery  floats  now,  and 
how  one  feels  that  it 's  the  breeze  which  is  lifting  it ! 
Formerly  it  looked  like  starched  linen,  tightly  pinned 
up.  Do  you  notice  how  well  the  satin  sheen  I  Ve  just 
laid  on  the  bosom  renders  the  slippery  suppleness  of  a 
young  girl's  skin,  and  how  this  mixed  russet  and  burnt- 
ochre  tone  warms  up  the  ashen  coldness  of  this  great 
shadow  wherein  the  blood  was  congealing  instead  of 
running?  Young  man,  young  man,  no  master  could 
teach  what  I  'm  showing  you  now.  Mabuse  alone 
possessed  the  secret  of  giving  life  to  form.  Mabuse 
had  but  one  pupil,  and  that  was  I.  I  have  had  none, 
and  I  am  old.  You  are  intelligent  enough  to  divine 
the  rest,  by  the  various  hints  I  Ve  given  you.' 

While  he  spoke,  the  strange  old  man  was  touching 
every  part  of  the  canvas :  here  a  couple  of  strokes, 
there  only  one,  but  every  stroke  so  telling  that  it 
seemed  like  a  new  picture,  a  picture  positively  steeped 


14         THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

in  light.  He  worked  with  so  passionate  an  ardour  that 
the  sweat  stood  in  pearls  on  his  bald  forehead ;  he  did 
it  all  so  rapidly,  in  little  impatient  jerky  movements, 
that,  to  young  Poussin,  it  seemed  as  if  there  were  in  the 
quaint  body  a  demon  which  made  fantastic  use  of  the 
hands  against  the  owner's  will.  The  unnatural  bril- 
liancy of  the  eyes,  the  convulsions  which  had  all  the 
effect  of  a  kind  of  resistance,  made  the  notion  plausible 
to  a  youthful  fancy.  The  old  man  worked  on,  still 
talking. 

'  Paf !  paf !  paf !  that 's  the  way  to  cook  it  up,  boy  ! 
.  .  .  Come,  my  little  touches,  warm  this  glacial  tone 
for  me !  None  of  your  nonsense  !  Pon  !  pon  !  pon  ! ' 
he  kept  it  up,  warming  those  places  where  he  had 
already  pointed  out  a  lack  of  vitality  by  dispersing  his 
colours  so  that  they  hid  the  disparities  of  temperament, 
and  re-established  the  unity  of  tone  proper  to  a  fervid 
Egyptian  woman.  '  Look  you,  boy,  the  last  stroke  is 
the  only  one  that  counts.  Porbus  has  given  a  hundred ; 
I,  only  one.  We  get  no  thanks  for  all  the  rest — 
realise  that ! ' 

At  last  the  demon  stopped,  and,  turning  to  Porbus 
and  Poussin,  who  were  dumb  with  admiration,  he  said 
to  them,  '  It 's  not  as  good  as  my  Belle  Noiseuse ;  but 
one  could  sign  one's  name  to  it.  Yes,  I  'd  sign  it,'  he 
added,  going  to  fetch  a  mirror,  and  looking  at  it  through 
that.  '.  .  .  Now  let  us  go  to  breakfast,'  he  cried. 
'You  must  both  come  to  my  place.  I  have  some 
smoked  ham,  some  good  wine,  and  despite  the  foul 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE          15 

times,  we  '11  talk  painting,  eh  ?  For  we  're  worthy  men 
all.  .  .  .  Here's  a  little  fellow,'  he  ended,  slapping 
Nicolas  Poussin  on  the  shoulder,  '  who  has  facility.' 

Then,  noticing  the  Norman's  threadbare  cloak,  he 
drew  a  hide-purse  from  his  belt,  rummaged  in  it,  took 
out  two  gold  pieces,  and  showing  them  :  '  I  '11  buy  your 
drawing,'  said  he. 

'Take  it,'  said  Porbus  to  Poussin,  seeing  him  start 
and  flush  up,  for  the  young  adept  had  all  the  pride  of 
poverty ;  '  take  it ;  he  has  enough  to  ransom  two  Kings 
in  his  purse  ! ' 

Then  the  three  went  downstairs,  and,  talking  art  all 
the  time,  made  their  way  to  a  handsome  wooden  house 
near  the  Pont  St.  Michel.  Its  ornaments — the  knocker, 
the  window-frames,  the  arabesques — astounded  Poussin. 
Before  he  knew  where  he  was,  the  embryo  painter 
found  himself  in  a  low-ceiled  room,  before  a  good  fire, 
near  a  table  loaded  with  appetising  food — and  all,  oh 
wondrous  fortune !  in  the  company  of  two  great  artists 
in  the  height  of  good-fellowship. 

'Young  man,'  said  Porbus,  seeing  him  staring  open- 
mouthed  at  a  picture,  '  don't  look  too  hard  at  that,  or 
you  '11  fall  into  black  despair.' 

It  was  the  Adam  that  Mabuse  painted  in  order  to 
get  out  of  the  prison  where  he  had  long  been  kept  by 
his  creditors ;  and  the  figure  was  so  amazingly  real  that 
Nicolas  Poussin  began  in  that  instant  to  understand 
the  real  sense  of  the  old  man's  confused  discourse. 
This  latter  was  looking  at  the  picture  with  an  air  of 


i6         THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

satisfaction,  but  not  of  enthusiasm,  and  seemed  to  be 
saying,  '  I  Ve  done  better  than  that ! ' 

'  There 's  life  in  it,'  he  remarked.  '  My  poor  master 
surpassed  himself  there ;  but  there 's  a  certain  lack  of 
truthfulness  at  the  heart  of  it.  The  man  is  fully  alive ; 
he 's  getting  up  and  coming  towards  us.  But  the  air, 
the  sky,  the  wind,  all  that  we  should  breathe,  see,  and 
feel — they're  out  of  it.  And  moreover,  it's  only  a 
human  man  after  all !  Now,  the  one  man  that  came 
straight  out  of  the  hands  of  God  ought  to  have 
something  divine  about  him,  and  that's  not  there. 
Mabuse  himself  used  to  say  so  angrily,  when  he  wasn't 
drunk.' 

Poussin  looked  alternately  at  the  old  man  and  at 
Porbus  with  an  uneasy  curiosity.  He  approached  the 
latter  as  if  to  ask  him  the  name  of  their  host;  but 
the  painter  put  a  finger  on  his  lips  with  a  mysterious 
air,  and  the  young  man,  deeply  interested,  kept  silence, 
hoping  that  sooner  or  later  some  word  would  enable 
him  to  guess  it,  for  wealth  and  talent  were  sufficiently 
attested  by  the  respectful  demeanour  of  Porbus,  and 
the  accumulation  of  wonders  in  the  room.  Poussin, 
on  beholding  a  magnificent  portrait  of  a  woman  which 
hung  on  the  dark  oaken  wainscot,  exclaimed,  '  What  a 
fine  Giorgione ! ' 

'  No,'  replied  the  old  man ;  '  you  are  looking  at  one 
of  my  first  daubs  .  .  .' 

'  Jesu  !  Then  I  'm  in  the  abode  of  the  god  of  paint- 
ing,' said  Poussin  artlessly. 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE          17 

The  other  smiled  as  one  long  since  accustomed  to 
the  eulogy. 

'  Master  Frenhofer,'  said  Porbus,  '  couldn't  you  send 
for  a  little  of  your  good  Rhine-wine  for  me  ? ' 

'  Two  pipes  ! '  answered  the  old  man.  '  One  in 
acknowledgment  of  the  pleasure  I  enjoyed  this  morning 
when  looking  at  your  pretty  sinner,  and  the  other  as 
friendship's  offering.' 

'Ah  !  if  I  wasn't  for  ever  ailing,'  replied  Porbus,  'and 
if  you  would  but  let  me  see  your  Belle  Noiseuse,  I  might 
paint  a  picture  tall  and  broad  and  deep,  where  the 
figures  should  be  all  life-size.' 

'Show  my  work  !'  cried  the  old  man,  deeply  moved. 
'  No,  no  !  I  must  bring  it  to  perfection  first.  Yesterday, 
towards  evening,  I  thought  I  had  finished.  Her  eyes 
seemed  to  me  to  float,  her  flesh  to  stir.  The  tresses  of 
her  hair  moved.  She  was  breathing !  .  .  .  But  al- 
though I  Ve  discovered  how  to  render  on  a  flat  canvas 
the  relief  and  the  roundness  of  Nature —  I  saw  my  mis- 
take in  the  morning  light,  all  the  same.  ...  Ah !  to 
arrive  at  that  glorious  result,  I  have  studied  thoroughly 
the  great  masters  of  colouring,  I  Ve  analysed  and  lifted, 
layer  by  layer,  the  pictures  of  Titian,  the  King  of 
Light ;  like  that  sovereign  artist,  I  Ve  sketched  my  figure 
in  light  tone  with  a  rich  and  supple  brush — for  shadow 
is  but  an  accident,  remember  that,  boy !  .  .  .  Then  I 
went  over  my  work  again,  and  by  means  of  half-tones 
and  glazes,  which  I  made  ever  less  and  less  transparent, 
I  found  I  was  able  to  render  the  most  unremitting 


i8          THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

shadows,  yes  !  even  to  the  very  pitchiest  of  blacks ;  for 
the  shadows  of  ordinary  painters  are  of  another  nature 
altogether  from  their  high  lights — they  're  wood,  brass, 
anything  you  like  but  flesh  in  shadow.  One  feels  that 
if  their  figure  should  move  about,  the  darker  places 
would  not  clear  up,  would  not  become  luminous.  I  Ve 
avoided  that  error,  into  which  many  of  the  most  illus- 
trious have  fallen;  in  my  pictures,  the  whiteness  shows 
under  the  opacity  of  the  lustiest  shadow.  I  'm  not  like 
that  sort  of  ass  who  thinks  he  can  draw  correctly  because 
he  carefully  pares  off  his  touches ;  I  don't  make  a  hard 
line  round  my  form  nor  display  every  little  anatomical 
detail — the  human  body  isn't  an  affair  of  outlines. 
There's  where  the  sculptors  get  nearer  to  truth  than 
we  can.  Nature  is  a  succession  of  involuted  curves. 
Strictly  speaking,  there's  no  such  thing  as  drawing!  .  .  . 
Don't  laugh,  young  man  !  That  may  sound  crazy  to 
you  now,  but  some  day  you  '11  know  what  it  means.  .  .  . 
The  line  is  the  medium  whereby  man  perceives  the 
effect  of  light  upon  objects ;  but  there  are  no  lines  in 
Nature,  for  Nature  is  the  totality  of  things :  it 's  by 
modelling  that  one  draws,  that  is  to  say,  detaches  things 
from  their  environment;  the  distribution  of  light  is 
the  only  means  whereby  we  see  a  body !  And  so  I 
haven't  fixed  the  lineaments,  but  spread  over  the 
contours  a  veil  of  warm,  light  half-tones,  in  such  a  way 
that  one  could  not  possibly  put  one's  finger  on  the 
place  where  they  melt  into  the  background.  At  close 
quarters,  this  method  looks  woolly  and  seems  wanting  in 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE          19 

precision ;  but  at  a  little  distance,  it  consolidates, 
harmonises,  stands  out — the  body  seems  ready  to  turn 
round,  the  forms  project  themselves,  one  feels  the  air 
circulating  everywhere.  However,  I  am  not  satisfied 
yet ;  I  have  my  doubts.  Perhaps  one  should  never 
draw  a  single  stroke ;  perhaps  one  should  attack  a 
figure  from  the  centre,  concentrating  one's  self  at  first 
upon  the  high-lights,  and  then  going  on  to  the  darkest 
portions.  Isn't  it  thus  that  the  sun  works — the  sun, 
that  godlike  painter  of  the  universe?  O  Nature,  Nature, 
where  is  the  man  who  has  captured  thee  in  thy  flight ! 
Well !  excess  of  science,  like  excess  of  ignorance,  ends 
in  negation.  I  am  sceptical  of  my  work  ! ' 

He  paused,  then  resumed  :  '  I  have  been  at  it  ten 
years,  young  man ;  but  what  are  ten  short  years  when 
one's  having  a  tussle  with  Nature?  We  don't  know 
how  long  our  lord  Pygmalion  took  to  make  the  only 
statue  that  has  ever  walked  ! ' 

The  old  man  fell  into  a  deep  reverie ;  with  fixed  eyes, 
he  sat  playing  mechanically  with  his  knife. 

'He's  talking  to  his  famulus  now,'  said  Porbus  in  a 
low  voice. 

At  these  words,  Nicolas  Poussin  realised  that  he  was 
under  the  spell  of  an  artist's  inexplicable  curiosity.  The 
old  man  with  his  pale  eyes,  thus  fixed  in  blank  absorp- 
tion— already  superhuman  enough  in  the  boy's  fancy — 
now  seemed  like  some  fantastic  genie  from  an  unknown 
world.  He  awakened  an  infinity  of  confused  ideas  in  the 
mind.  This  sort  of  fascination  is  a  moral  phenomenon 


20          THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

which  one  can  no  more  define  than  one  can  put  into 
words  the  emotion  excited  by  a  song  which  brings  his 
country  back  into  an  exile's  heart.  The  disdain  which 
this  old  man  affected  for  the  finest  efforts  of  Art,  his 
wealth,  his  odd  ways,  the  deference  which  Porbus  showed 
him,  the  work  which  was  kept  such  a  secret  and  for 
so  long— that  work  of  such  infinite  patience,  and  doubt- 
less of  genius  as  well,  if  one  were  to  judge  by  the  Tete 
de  Vierge  which  young  Poussin  had  so  frankly  admired, 
and  which,  beautiful  even  in  juxtaposition  with  the 
Adam  of  Mabuse,  was  in  the  true  imperial  manner  of  a 
prince  of  Art — everything  about  him  was  beyond  the 
limits  of  human  nature.  The  clearest,  most  perceptible 
impression  left  upon  the  eager  imagination  of  Nicolas 
Poussin  by  this  supernatural  being,  was  that  of  a  perfect 
type  of  the  artistic  temperament — that  wild  thing  to 
which  so  much  power  is  given,  and  which  but  too  often 
abuses  it,  dragging  cold  reason,  and  the  respectable 
citizen,  and  even  some  real  lovers  of  Art,  through  rocky 
path  after  rocky  path,  where  there  is  nothing  for  them ; 
but  where,  ever  madder  in  caprice,  this  white-winged 
wanton  discovers  epics,  ancient  castles,  masterpieces.  A 
mocking  creature  and  a  kindly,  and  a  prolific,  and  a 
barren !  .  .  .  Thus,  for  enthusiastic  Poussin,  the  old  man 
had  been  suddenly  transfigured,  as  it  were,  into  Art  her- 
self— Art  with  her  secrets,  her  ardours,  and  her  reveries. 
'  Yes,  my  dear  Porbus,'  began  Frenhofer  again ;  '  I 
have  never  yet  encountered  an  irreproachable  woman,  a 
body  whose  contours  were  of  perfect  beauty,  and  whose 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE          21 

fleshtints.  .  .  .  But  where  does  she  exist,'  he  interrupted 
himself  with  '  • — that  undiscoverable  Venus  of  the 
ancients,  so  long  sought,  of  whose  loveliness  we  can 
find  no  more  than  a  few  traces  ?  Oh  !  to  see  once, 
were  it  but  for  a  moment,  Nature  in  her  divinity,  her 
perfection, — the  Ideal,  in  a  word  ! — I  would  give  my 
entire  fortune  .  .  .  Yea !  I  would  seek  thee  in  thy 
Limbo,  thou  celestial  beauty  !  Like  Orpheus,  I  would 
go  down  into  the  Hell  of  Art,  and  bring  back  Life  with 
me.' 

'We  may  take  ourselves  off,'  said  Porbus  to  Poussin ; 
'he  neither  sees  nor  hears  us  now.' 

'Let  us  go  to  his  studio,'  suggested  the  wondering 
youth. 

'  Oh !  the  old  fox  has  that  safe  and  fast.  His 
treasures  are  too  well  guarded — we  could  never  get  at 
them.  I  have  not  waited  for  your  suggestion  and  your 
whim  before  making  an  assault  upon  the  mystery ! ' 

'  Then  there  is  a  mystery  ? ' 

'Yes,'  replied  Porbus.  'Old  Frenhofer  is  the  only 
pupil  that  Mabuse  would  ever  take.  Frenhofer  became 
his  friend,  his  saviour,  his  father;  he  sacrificed  the 
greater  part  of  his  treasures  to  satisfy  the  passions  of 
Mabuse,  and  in  exchange,  Mabuse  bequeathed  him  the 
secret  of  'relief,'  the  power  of  giving  to  figures  that 
extraordinary  vitality,  that  flower  of  life,  which  is  our 
eternal  despair,  but  which  he  could  get  so  marvellously 
that  one  day,  having  sold  and  drunk  the  flowered 
damask  which  he  was  to  wear  at  the  entry  of  Charles- 


22          THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

Quint,  he  accompanied  his  master  in  a  dress  of  paper 
painted  to  look  like  it.  The  Emperor  was  amazed  at 
the  peculiar  splendour  of  the  stuff  which  Mabuse  wore, 
and,  wishing  to  compliment  the  old  drunkard's  patron 
upon  it,  he  discovered  the  cheat.  Frenhofer  is  an 
impassioned  lover  of  our  Art,  and  sees  further  and 
deeper  than  other  painters.  He  has  pondered  pro- 
foundly on  colours,  on  the  absolute  truth  of  line ;  but, 
through  his  very  research  itself,  he  has  come  actually  to 
disbelieve  in  its  object.  In  his  moments  of  despair,  he 
maintains  that  drawing  does  not  exist,  and  that  one  can 
produce  nothing  but  geometrical  figures  by  means  of 
strokes — which  is  on  the  hither  side  of  truth,  since,  with 
a  stroke  and  the  charcoal  (which  being  black  is  not  a 
colour),  one  can  make  a  figure,  thus  proving  that  our  Art 
is,  like  Nature,  composed  of  an  infinite  number  of 
elements.  Drawing  produces  a  skeleton,  colour  is  that 
skeleton's  life;  but  the  life  without  the  skeleton  is  a 
thing  more  incomplete  than  is  the  skeleton  without  the 
life.  In  the  end,  there 's  something  truer  than  any  of 
that — 'tis  that  practice  and  observation  are  everything 
with  a  painter,  and  that,  if  reason  and  poetry  are  to 
go  wrangling  with  the  brushes,  one  will  arrive  at  being 
a  sceptic  like  this  old  fellow,  who 's  as  much  of  a  mad- 
man as  of  a  painter.  He  is  a  sublime  artist,  but  he  had 
the  misfortune  to  be  born  rich,  which  has  permitted 
him  to  fool  about — don't  imitate  him  in  that !  Work  ! 
Artists  should  think  only  with  their  brushes.' 

'  We  '11  get  in  somehow  ! '  cried  Poussin,  who  was  no 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE          23 

longer  listening  to  Porbus,  but  arranging  everything  in 
imagination  just  as  he  wanted  it  to  be. 

Porbus  smiled  at  the  young  stranger's  enthusiasm, 
and  departed,  inviting  him  to  come  and  see  him. 

Nicolas  Poussin  walked  slowly  back  towards  the  Rue 
de  la  Harpe,  and,  in  his  preoccupation,  went  past  his 
own  modest  lodging.  Then,  anxiously  and  eagerly 
climbing  the  wretched  stair,  he  reached  an  upper  room 
tucked  right  under  a  wooden-fronted  roof — that  rustic 
and  graceful  feature  of  so  many  an  old  Paris  house. 
Near  the  one  dim  window  of  this  apartment,  sat  a  young 
girl,  who,  as  the  latch  rattled,  sprang  up  with  loving  im- 
pulse :  she  had  recognised  the  painter's  hand  so  soon  as 
he  touched  it. 

'  What  is  the  matter  ? '  she  exclaimed. 

'  It 's  .  .  .  it 's — oh ! '  he  cried,  breathless  with  joy, 
'  how  I  have  felt  I  was  a  painter !  I  had  my  doubts 
before,  but  this  morning  I  believed  in  myself!  I  could 
be  a  great  man !  O  Gillette,  we  '11  be  rich  and  we  '11 
be  happy.  These  brushes  are  full  of  gold.'  .  .  .  But 
he  stopped  suddenly.  His  grave,  strong  young  face 
lost  its  radiance  as  he  compared  the  immensity  of  his 
hopes  with  the  mediocrity  of  his  resources.  The  walls 
were  covered  with  ordinary  sheets  of  paper  all  scribbled 
over  with  crayon  drawings.  He  possessed  only  four  real 
canvases.  Colours  were  then  very  costly,  and  the  poor 
young  man  had  often  gazed  at  an  almost  empty  palette. 
But  for  all  his  poverty,  he  possessed  and  displayed  the 
richest  treasures  of  the  heart,  as  well  as  the  superabund- 


24         THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

ance  of  a  consuming  genius.  He  had  been  brought  to 
Paris  by  an  aristocratic  friend,  or  perhaps  by  his  own 
talent ;  and  quickly  had  encountered  there  a  mistress 
— one  of  those  noble  and  generous  souls  who  can  live 
and  suffer  with  a  great  man,  wedding  his  troubles  and 
training  herself  to  understand  his  caprices ;  as  valiant 
for  poverty  and  for  love,  as  other  women  are  for  luxury 
and  heartless  show.  Gillette's  hovering  smile  irradiated 
the  garret  like  the  very  sun  himself.  And  the  sun  did 
not  always  shine,  but  she  was  always  there — wrapt  up 
in  her  passion,  tenacious  of  her  joy  and  of  her  sufferings, 
consoling  the  genius  which  was  fulfilling  itself  in  love 
before  it  entered  into  its  kingdom  of  Art. 

'  Listen,  Gillette — come  here  ! ' 

The  obedient,  happy  girl  flew  to  his  arms.  She  sat 
upon  his  knee,  all  grace  and  beauty,  fair  as  an  April 
day,  rich  in  every  womanly  charm,  and  enhancing  each 
one  with  the  lustre  of  an  ardent  spirit. 

'  O  God  ! '  the  boy  cried,  '  I  can  never  dare  to  tell 
her ' 

'  A  secret  ? '  she  exclaimed.     '  I  must  know  it ! ' 

Poussin  was  lost  in  dreams. 

'  Do  tell  me.' 

'  Gillette — poor  darling  !  .  .  .' 

'  Oh,  you  want  me  to  do  something  for  you  ? ' 

'Yes.' 

'  If  it 's  to  pose  for  you  again  as  I  did  the  other  day,' 
she  said  with  a  little  resentful  look,  '1  never  will 
again — for  when  I  'm  doing  it,  your  eyes  don't  say 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE          25 

things  to  me  any  more.     You  're  not  thinking  of  me  at 
all,  and  yet  you  're  looking  at  me ' 

'  Would  you  rather  see  me  copying  another  woman  ? ' 

'  I  might,'  answered  she,  '  if  she  was  very  ugly.' 

'  Well,'  resumed  Poussin  gravely,  '  supposing  that  for 
the  sake  of  my  future  fame,  supposing  that  to  make  me 
a  great  painter,  you  had  to  go  and  pose  for  some  one 
else  ? ' 

'You  can  put  me  to  the  test,'  she  replied.  'You 
know  very  well  I  wouldn't  go.' 

Poussin's  head  sank  on  his  breast,  as  does  his  who 
breaks  down  beneath  joy  or  grief. 

'  Listen,'  the  girl  said,  pulling  the  sleeve  of  his  worn 
doublet.  '  I  have  often  told  you,  Nick,  that  I  'd  give 
up  my  life  for  you,  but  I  never  promised  to  give  up  my 
love,  while  I  am  alive.' 

'  To  give  up  your  love  ? '  cried  the  young  artist. 

'  If  I  showed  myself  like  that  to  another  man,  you 
wouldn't  love  me  any  more ;  and  I  shouldn't  feel  that 
I  was  worthy  of  you,  either.  To  obey  your  caprices, 
that's  the  simple,  natural  thing;  for,  even  against  my 
own  wish,  I  'm  glad  and  proud  to  do  your  dear  bidding. 
But  for  another  man — oh,  shame  ! ' 

'Forgive  me,  my  Gillette,'  he  cried,  suddenly  kneel- 
ing before  her.  '  I  had  rather  be  loved  than  be  famous. 
You  are  dearer  to  me  than  fortune  and  renown.  Here  ! 
I  '11  throw  away  my  brushes,  I  '11  burn  my  canvases.  I 
was  wrong :  my  vocation  is  to  love  you.  I  'm  not  a 
painter,  I  'm  a  lover.  Perish  Art  and  all  her  secrets ! ' 


26          THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

She  gazed  at  him  in  admiring  delight.  She  felt  like  a 
queen,  she  knew  instinctively  that  the  arts  were  being 
forgotten  for  her,  nay !  were  flung  at  her  feet  like  a  grain 
of  incense ! 

'  And  yet  he 's  only  an  old  man,'  began  Poussin  again. 
'  He  won't  see  anything  in  you  but  the  female  form — 
and  yours  is  so  faultless  ! ' 

'  One  must  love,  indeed  ! '  cried  she,  ready  to  sacrifice 
her  loving  scruples,  to  reward  her  lover  for  all  his  sacri- 
fices. '  But,'  she  added,  '  it  will  be  the  destruction  of 
me.  Ah  !  to  ruin  myself  for  you — that  would  be  very 
beautiful !  But  you  will  forget  me  .  .  .  Oh  !  why,  why 
did  you  think  of  this  thing  ? ' 

1 1  thought  of  it,  and  I  love  you,'  he  said  with  a  sort 
of  contrition.  '  Am  I  really  such  an  infamous  wretch,  I 
wonder  ? ' 

'  Let  us  consult  Father  Hardouin,'  suggested  she. 

'  No,  no ;  let  it  be  a  secret  between  us  two.' 

'Well,  I'll  go;  but  you  mustn't  be  there,'  she  said. 
'You  must  stay  outside  the  door,  and  have  your 
dagger  ready — and  if  I  scream,  rush  in  and  kill  the 
painter.' 

Blind  to  all  but  his  art,  Poussin  clasped  Gillette  in 
his  arms. 

'  He  loves  me  no  more  ! '  thought  she,  when  she  was 
alone  again. 

Already  she  was  repenting  her  decision.  But  she 
was  presently  seized  by  a  more  terrible  pang  than  that 
of  repentance ;  she  struggled  with  a  horrible  thought. 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE          27 

She  felt  that  already  she  loved  the  artist  less — because 
he  had  forfeited  a  little  of  her  respect. 


II.   CATHERINE  LESCAULT 

THREE  months  after  the  meeting  of  Poussin  and 
Porbus,  the  latter  went  to  see  Master  Frenhofer.  The 
old  man  was  just  then  a  prey  to  one  of  those  profound 
and  unreasoned  discouragements  whose  cause  lies,  ac- 
cording to  the  mathematicians  of  medicine,  in  a  poor 
digestion,  in  the  direction  of  the  wind,  or  else  in  the 
heat  or  some  other  hypochondriacal  rubbish ;  while, 
according  to  the  spiritualists,  it  arises  from  the  imper- 
fection of  our  moral  nature.  Our  old  gentleman  was,  in 
plain  fact,  utterly  worn  out  by  his  efforts  to  get  his  mys- 
terious picture  finished.  He  was  sitting  languidly  in  a 
vast  seat  of  carved  oak,  upholstered  in  black  leather; 
without  altering  his  listless  attitude,  he  cast  an  ineffably 
weary  glance  at  Porbus. 

'Well,  master,'  said  this  latter,  'did  that  ultramarine 
you  went  all  the  way  to  Bruges  for,  turn  out  a  failure  ? 
Or  have  you  found  it  impossible  to  grind  our  new 
white  ?  Or  is  the  oil  bad,  or  are  the  brushes  restive  ? ' 

'  Alas ! '  cried  the  old  man,  '  I  thought  for  a  while 
that  my  work  was  finished ;  but  I  now  believe  firmly 
that  I  Ve  made  some  mistakes  in  detail,  and  I  shan't  be 
easy  till  I've  dissipated  my  doubts.  I'm  making  up 
my  mind  to  travel ;  and  I  shall  go  to  Turkey,  Greece, 
D 


28          THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

Asia,  to  look  for  a  model  and  compare  my  picture  with 
the  different  types  I  find.  .  .  .  And  yet,  maybe  I  really 
have  her  up  there,'  he  went  on,  with  a  slight  smile  of 
satisfaction.  '  Nature  herself,  I  mean.  Sometimes  I  'm 
almost  afraid  that  a  breath  may  bring  that  woman  to  life, 
and  that  then  she  '11  vanish  from  my  sight.' 

And  he  got  up  suddenly,  as  if  about  to  start  that  very 
instant. 

'  Oh,  oh  ! '  said  Porbus,  '  I  see  I  Ve  come  just  in  time 
to  spare  you  the  expense  and  fatigue  of  the  voyage.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ? '  asked  Frenhofer,  in  surprise. 

'Young  Poussin  is  beloved  by  a  woman  whose 
incomparable  beauty  is  absolutely  without  any  imper- 
fection whatever.  But,  my  dear  master,  if  he  consents 
to  lend  her  to  you,  you  must  at  least  let  us  see  your 
picture.' 

The  old  man  stood  motionless,  in  a  state  of  utter 
stupefaction.  '  What ! '  he  cried  at  last  most  mourn- 
fully, '  show  my  creature,  my  spouse  ?  rend  the  veil 
which  I  have  chastely  thrown  over  my  bliss  ?  'Twould 
be  a  hideous  prostitution  !  Here 's  ten  years  that  I  Ve 
been  living  with  that  woman ;  she  's  mine,  mine  alone, 
she  loves  me.  Hasn't  she  smiled  at  me  with  every 
brush-mark  I  put  on  her  ?  Why  !  she  has  a  soul — the 
soul  that  I  Ve  given  her.  She  would  blush  if  other  eyes 
than  mine  were  to  behold  her.  Show  her !  but  where 's 
the  husband,  the  lover,  who 's  vile  enough  to  bring  his 
woman  to  dishonour?  When  you  paint  a  picture  for 
the  Court,  you  don't  put  your  whole  soul  into  it — you 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE          29 

sell  mere  coloured  mannikins  to  your  courtiers.  My 
painting  is  not  a  painting — it 's  a  sentiment,  a  passion  ! 
Born  in  my  studio,  she  shall  stay  there — a  virgin ;  she 
shall  leave  it  only  when  she's  fully  clothed.  Poetry 
and  women  give  themselves  in  their  nudity  to  their 
lovers  alone !  Do  we  possess  Raphael's  model,  or 
Ariosto's  Angelica,  or  Dante's  Beatrice  ?  Not  we  !  We 
see  only  the  shapes  of  them.  Well,  the  thing  I  keep 
under  bolt  and  bar  up  there  is  an  exception  in  our  art. 
It 's  not  a  picture — it 's  a  woman  !  a  woman  with  whom 
I  weep,  laugh,  talk,  and  think.  Do  you  suppose  I  can 
cast  off  a  bliss  that 's  lasted  ten  years,  as  one  casts  off  a 
cloak — that,  all  in  a  minute,  I  can  cease  to  be  father, 
lover,  and  god  ?  The  woman  there  is  not  a  creature, 
but  a  creation.  Let  your  young  man  come  along,  and 
I  '11  give  him  my  treasures — my  Correggios,  my  Michael 
Angelos,  my  Titians ;  I  '11  kiss  his  footsteps  in  the  dust 
— but  make  him  my  rival  ?  'twould  be  infamy !  Ah, 
I  'm  more  lover  even  than  painter.  Yes — I  shall  have 
the  fortitude  to  burn  my  Belle  Noiscuse  when  my  last 
moment  comes ;  but  expose  her  to  the  gaze  of  a  man,  a 
young  man,  a  painter — no,  no !  If  any  one  should 
pollute  her  with  a  look,  I  'd  kill  him  next  day !  I  'd 
kill  you  on  the  instant,  you  who  are  my  friend,  if  you 
did  not  do  homage  to  her  on  your  knees  !  And  now — 
do  you  still  imagine  that  I'll  subject  my  idol  to  the 
frozen  stares,  the  inane  criticisms  of  idiots  ?  Ah,  love 
is  a  mystery;  it's  only  in  the  very  core  of  our  hearts 
that  we  really  live  at  all,  and  all  is  lost  when  a  man 


30         THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

can  say,  even  to  his  friend,  "  That 's  the  woman  I 
love ! " ' 

The  old  man  seemed  to  have  grown  young  again ; 
his  eyes  were  flashing,  his  pale  cheeks  were  touched 
with  vivid  colour,  his  hands  were  trembling.  Porbus, 
astonished  at  the  passionate  vehemence  with  which  he 
had  spoken,  was  puzzled  how  to  respond  to  a  feeling  so 
abnormal  and  so  intense.  Was  Frenhofer  a  rational 
being,  or  a  madman?  Was  he  now  enthralled  by  an 
artist's  fantasy,  or  did  the  ideas  he  had  expressed  pro- 
ceed from  that  singular  fanaticism  which  is  produced  in 
us  by  the  long  process  of  generation  necessary  to  a 
great  work  of  art  ?  Could  one  ever  hope  to  persuade 
such  a  strange  passion  to  any  sort  of  compromise  ? 

Possessed  by  all  these  thoughts,  Porbus  said  to  the 
old  man,  '  But  isn't  it  woman  for  woman  ?  Won't 
Poussin  be  yielding  up  his  mistress  to  your  gaze  ? ' 

'What  sort  of  a  mistress?'  rejoined  Frenhofer. 
'  She  '11  betray  him  sooner  or  later.  Mine  will  be  always 
faithful ! ' 

'  Well,'  answered  Porbus,  '  we  '11  talk  of  it  no  more. 
But  before  you  find,  even  in  Asia,  a  woman  as  beauti- 
ful, as  faultless  as  she  of  whom  I  speak,  you  '11  die — and 
leave  your  picture  unfinished.' 

'  Oh,  it  is  finished ! '  said  Frenhofer.  'Any  one  look- 
ing at  it  would  think  he  saw  a  real  woman  lying  on  a 
velvet  couch,  under  curtains.  Near  her  a  golden  tripod 
is  breathing  forth  perfume.  You  would  want  to  take 
hold  of  the  tassel  of  the  curtain-bands;  you  would 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE          31 

believe  you  were  seeing  the  very  bosom  of  Catherine 
Lescault — a  beautiful  courtesan  who  was  called  La 
Belle  Noiseuse — and  watching  its  very  rise  and  fall.  .  .  . 
And  yet,  I  wish  I  were  quite  sure ' 

'Then  go  to  Asia,'  said  Porbus,  perceiving  a  sort  of 
hesitation  in  Frenhofer's  gaze;  and  with  that,  he  went 
towards  the  door. 

Just  at  that  moment  Gillette  and  Nicolas  Poussin 
arrived  at  the  house.  The  girl  was  on  the  threshold, 
when  suddenly  she  dropped  Poussin's  arm,  and  recoiled 
as  though  she  had  been  seized  by  some  swift  fore- 
boding. 

'  Why  do  I  come  hither  —  what  should  I  do 
here?'  she  asked  her  lover  earnestly,  with  a  sombre 
gaze. 

'Gillette,  I  have  left  it  in  your  hands — I  will  obey 
you  wholly.  You  are  my  conscience ;  you  shall  be  my 
glory.  Come  home — I  shall  be  happier,  perhaps,  than 
if  you  .  .  .' 

'  And  am  I  mistress  of  myself,  do  you  suppose,  when 
you  talk  to  me  like  that  ?  Ah  no  !  I  turn  into  a  child 
again.  .  .  .  Let  us  go  in,'  she  added,  evidently  with 
a  great  effort ;  '  and  though  our  love  be  destroyed,  and 
though  I  fill  my  own  heart  with  a  long  regret,  your 
celebrity  will  be  the  price  of  my  obedience  to  your  will. 
Yes,  we  '11  go  in ;  and  I  shall  live  again — for  ever ! — as 
a  memory  on  your  palette.' 

As  they  opened  the  door,  the  lovers  encountered 
Porbus,  who,  amazed  at  Gillette's  beauty,  caught  her 


32          THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

all  trembling  and  tearful  as  she  was,  and  led  her  to  the 
old  man. 

'  Look  ! '  he  cried ;  '  isn't  she  worth  all  the  master- 
pieces in  the  universe  ? ' 

Frenhofer  started.  There  stood  Gillette,  in  a  child- 
ish, artless  attitude — an  innocent,  frightened  Georgian 
maiden,  dragged  by  brigands  before  a  slave-merchant, 
might  so  stand  and  so  look.  She  was  blushing  deeply, 
her  eyes  were  downcast,  her  hands  hung  by  her  sides, 
she  seemed  quite  helpless,  and  her  tears  protested,  as 
it  were,  against  this  affront  to  her  modesty.  Poussin, 
repenting  him  that  he  had  brought  his  treasure  from 
its  hiding-place,  bitterly  cursed  himself.  Once  more  he 
was  the  lover  rather  than  the  artist ;  his  heart  sickened 
as  he  saw  the  old  man's  eye  light  up — that  painter's 
eye  which,  as  it  were,  unclothed  her,  divining  unerringly 
the  most  intimate  secrets  of  her  form.  Poussin  knew 
then  in  all  its  ferocity  the  natural  jealousy  of  true 
passion. 

'  Let  us  go,  Gillette  ! '  he  cried. 

At  that  cry,  at  that  accent,  his  happy  mistress  looked 
up,  read  his  face,  and  rushed  into  his  arms. 

'  Ah,  then  you  love  me ! '  she  sobbed.  She  had 
been  strong  enough  to  say  nothing  of  her  anguish,  but 
she  had  not  strength  to  hide  her  joy. 

1  Oh !  leave  her  to  me  for  a  moment ! '  said  the  old 
painter ;  '  and  then — yes,  I  consent ! — you  shall  com- 
pare her  with  my  Catherine.' 

There  was  love  in  Frenhofer's  cry,  too.     He  seemed 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE          33 

to  have  a  personal  feeling  about  his  painted  woman — 
something  almost  like  rivalry,  for  he  appeared  to  be,  so 
to  speak,  exulting  beforehand  in  the  victory  that  his 
lovely  creation  was  to  win  over  a  young,  living  girl. 

1  Don't  let  him  go  back  on  his  word,'  cried  Porbus, 
slapping  Poussin's  shoulder.  'The  harvest  of  love  is 
fleeting — that  of  Art  immortal ! ' 

'  But,'  said  Gillette,  looking  searchingly  at  them  both, 
'am  I  not  something  more  than  a  mere  woman — for 
him?' 

She  lifted  her  head  haughtily ;  but  when,  after  an 
indignant  glance  at  Frenhofer,  she  looked  at  her  lover 
again  and  found  him  staring  at  the  portrait  which 
formerly  he  had  mistaken  for  a  Giorgione  :  '  Ah  ! '  she 
exclaimed.  '  Let  us  go  up  to  the  other  room.  .  .  .  He 
has  never  looked  at  me  like  that.' 

'  Old  man,'  said  Poussin,  roused  by  Gillette's  voice, 
'do  you  see  this  sword?  If  this  damsel  utters  one 
word  of  complaint,  I  '11  plunge  it  in  your  heart ;  I  '11 
burn  your  house  down — not  one  soul  shall  escape. 
Do  you  understand?' 

His  face  was  dark,  his  voice  terrible.  This  attitude 
(and  better  still,  his  threatening  gesture)  consoled  Gil- 
lette ;  she  could  almost  pardon  him  for  having  sacrificed 
her  to  his  Art  and  his  glorious  future.  .  .  .  Porbus  and 
Poussin  waited  outside  the  door,  exchanging  silent 
glances.  At  first,  the  painter  of  the  Marie  Egyptienne 
uttered  a  few  exclamations :  '  Ah,  she 's  undressing ! 
He 's  told  her  to  go  under  the  full  light !  He 's  com- 


34          THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

paring  them  now  ! '  but  Poussin's  heart-broken  expres- 
sion quickly  silenced  him,  for  though  old  painters  for- 
get these  little  scruples  in  the  service  of  Art,  Porbus 
was  touched  by  the  lover's  freshness  and  the  pathos  of 
the  situation.  The  boy  had  his  hand  on  his  dagger, 
his  ear  was  glued  to  the  door.  The  two,  standing 
there  in  the  gloom,  looked  like  conspirators  awaiting 
the  hour  to  strike  a  tyrant  down. 

'  Come  in,  come  in  ! '  said  the  old  man  at  last,  beam- 
ing with  joy.  '  My  picture  is  perfect — I  can  show  it 
proudly  now.  Never  will  painter,  brushes,  colours, 
canvas,  and  light  combine  to  put  together  a  rival  to 
Catherine  Lescault,  the  beautiful  courtesan  ! ' 

Possessed  by  eager  curiosity,  Porbus  and  Poussin 
rushed  to  the  centre  of  a  vast,  dusty,  and  very  dis- 
orderly studio,  with  a  few  pictures  hanging  on  its  walls. 
They  paused  at  first  before  a  life-size  figure  of  a  woman, 
half-naked,  which  had  arrested  their  admiring  attention. 

'  Oh,  don't  waste  time  over  that ! '  said  Frenhofer ; 
'that's  a  canvas  I  daubed  as  a  study  of  a  pose — it's  not 
worth  looking  at.  Those  are  my  mistakes ! '  he  went 
on,  pointing  to  the  exquisite  things  which  hung  on  the 
walls  around  them. 

On  hearing  this,  Porbus  and  Poussin,  overwhelmed  by 
such  disdain  for  such  productions,  looked  about  eagerly 
for  the  promised  portrait,  but  could  not  see  it. 

Why,  here  it  is  ! '  said  the  old  man.  His  hair  was 
rumpled,  his  face  was  flushed  with  unnatural  excitement, 
his  eyes  were  sparkling,  and  he  was  panting  like  a 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE          35 

young  man  drunk  with  passion  .  .  .  '  Ha,  ha ! '  he 
cried,  'you  didn't  expect  such  perfection,  did  you? 
You're  standing  before  a  woman,  and  you're  looking 
for  a  mere  picture  !  There 's  such  depth  in  this  canvas, 
the  atmosphere  is  so  truthful,  that  you  positively  can't 
distinguish  it  from  the  atmosphere  around  you.  Where 
is  artifice?  Gone,  vanished — this  is  the  very  form  itself 
of  a  young  girl.  Haven't  I  got  the  colour,  the  very  soul 
of  the  line  which  seems  to  bound  the  body  ?  Why,  it 's 
the  same  phenomenon,  isn't  it  ?  that  we  see  every  day 
— of  objects  floating  in  atmosphere  as  a  fish  floats  in 
water.  Look  how  the  contours  are  detached  from  the 
background !  Aren't  you  convinced  that  you  could 
pass  your  hand  behind  that  back  ?  That 's  why,  for 
seven  whole  years,  I  Ve  studied  the  effects  of  the  coup- 
ling of  light  and  objects — just  to  get  that.  And  the 
hair — isn't  it  drenched  with  sunshine?  Did  she  breathe 
just  then  ?  I  believe  she  did  !  .  .  .  And  look  at  that 
bosom  !  Who  wouldn't  kneel  and  worship  it  ?  Why, 
the  flesh  moves  as  you  look  !  She 's  going  to  stand  up 
— wait ! ' 

'Do  you  perceive  anything?'  asked  Poussin  of 
Porbus. 

'  No.  ...  Do  you  ? ' 

'  Nothing.' 

The  two  painters  left  the  old  man  to  his  rapture,  and 
looked  to  see  whether  the  light,  falling  full  on  the 
canvas  he  was  showing  them,  might  not  possibly  be 
neutralising  all  the  effects.  They  stood  on  the  right, 


36          THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

on  the  left,  and  straight  in  front  of  the  picture,  now 
stooping,  now  standing  erect.  .  .  . 

'  Yes,  yes — it  is  really  a  canvas,'  said  Frenhofer, 
mistaking  the  motive  of  this  minute  scrutiny.  '  Look  ! 
here 's  the  stretcher,  here 's  the  easel ;  and  why  !  here 
are  my  colours,  my  brushes —  He  seized  a  brush,  and 
held  it  to  them  with  a  boyish  gesture. 

'The  old  rogue  is  making  fun  of  us,'  said  Poussin, 
returning  to  the  supposed  picture.  '  All  I  can  see  there 
is  a  mass  of  confused  colour,  imprisoned  in  a  multi- 
tude of  extraordinary  lines — like  a  sort  of  wall  of  paint- 
ing.' 

'  No,  we  're  wrong — look  ! '  cried  Porbus. 

Drawing  nearer,  they  perceived  in  one  corner  of  the 
canvas  the  tip  of  a  bare  foot.  This  projected  from  the 
chaos  of  tints,  of  tones,  of  faintest  gradations,  which 
made  up  something  resembling  a  shapeless  cloud. 
'Twas  an  enchanting  foot — a  living  foot !  they  stood 
struck  dumb  with  admiration  before  the  one  fragment 
which  had  escaped  from  that  slow,  relentless,  incredible 
destruction.  The  foot  had  the  same  effect  as  has 
the  torso  of  some  Parian-marble  Venus  emerging 
from  the  litter  of  a  city  that  has  been  burned  to  the 
ground. 

'  There 's  a  woman  underneath  ! '  cried  Porbus,  point- 
ing out  to  Poussin  the  layers  of  colour  which  the  old 
painter  had  heaped  up  in  the  belief  that  he  was  bringing 
his  picture  to  perfection. 

The  two  artists  turned  swiftly  to  Frenhofer.     They 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE          37 

were  beginning  to  have  some  idea,  however  vague, 
of  the  state  of  rapture  in  which  he  lived  and 
moved. 

'  He  is  not  joking,'  said  Porbus. 

'  Yes,  my  friend,'  said  the  old  man,  coming  to  him- 
self again,  '  one  must  have  faith — faith  in  Art — and  one 
must  live  long  and  long  with  one 's  work  before  one  can 
produce  a  creation  like  that !  Some  of  those  shadows 
gave  me  a  desperate  bout  of  it.  Look  now,  there  on 
the  cheek,  under  the  eyes,  do  you  see  a  slight  shade  of 
a  shade  which,  if  you  '11  observe  it  some  day  in  real  life, 
I  guarantee  you'll  judge  to  be  untranslatable.  Well, 
do  you  suppose  that  effect  didn't  cost  me  the  devil  of  a 
time  to  produce?  But  then  again,  my  dear  Porbus, 
look  carefully  into  my  method,  and  you  '11  understand 
better  what  I  once  said  about  the  way  to  treat  your 
object  and  its  contours.  Look  at  the  light  on  the 
bosom,  and  observe  how,  by  successive  touches  and  by 
putting  lots  of  paint  on  my  high  lights,  I  've  succeeded 
in  getting  hold  of  the  very  gleam  itself  and  combining 
it  with  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  the  places  it  lights  up ; 
and  then  again,  by  a  reversal  of  the  process,  by  toning 
down  the  projections,  the  actual  grain  of  the  paint,  see 
how  I  've  caressed  the  contour  of  my  figure,  drowned  it 
in  half-tints  till  I  've  dismissed  all  suspicion  of  drawing 
or  any  artificial  method  whatever,  and  given  it  the 
aspect,  the  roundness,  of  Nature  itself.  Come  nearer ; 
then  you  '11  see  the  work  better.  It  loses,  at  a  distance. 
There  !  now  that,  I  consider,  is  very  remarkable.'  And 


38         THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE 

with  the  point  of  his  brush,  he  indicated  a  mere  plaster 
of  light  colour. 

Porbus  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder,  and,  turning  to 
Poussin,  '  Do  you  know,  we  are  looking  at  a  very  great 
painter  ?  '  said  he. 

'  He  is  even  more  of  a  poet  than  of  a  painter,'  replied 
Poussin,  gravely. 

'There, 'went  on  Porbus,  touching  the  picture,  'there 
culminates  our  Art  in  this  world  ! ' 

'  And  thence  it  mounts  to  Heaven,  and  loses  itself,' 
answered  Poussin. 

'  What  joys  are  embodied  in  that  bit  of  canvas  ! ' 
cried  Porbus. 

The  old  man,  rapt  away,  never  heard  them ;  he  was 
smiling  at  his  imaginary  lady. 

'  But  sooner  or  later  he  must  see  that  there 's  nothing 
on  his  canvas  ! '  Poussin  exclaimed. 

'  Nothing  on  my  canvas  ! '  said  Frenhofer,  looking  in 
turn  at  the  painters  and  at  his  supposed  picture. 

'What  have  you  done?'  said  Porbus,  under  his 
breath,  to  Poussin. 

The  old  man  clutched  the  young  man's  arm  and  said : 
'You  see  nothing,  do  you?  you  clown,  you  renegade, 
you  ninny,  you ' — he  ended  with  a  hideous  obscenity. 
'  How  dared  you  come  up  here,  then  ?  .  .  .  My  good 
Porbus,'  he  went  on,  turning  to  the  painter,  '  surely  you 
aren't  making  game  of  me,  too  ?  Tell  me —  I  'm  your 
friend ;  say,  have  I  really  spoilt  my  picture  ? ' 

Porbus  hesitated,  afraid  to  speak ;  but  the  anxiety  de- 


THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE          39 

picted  on  the  old  man's  white  face  was  so  intense,  that 
he  pointed  to  the  canvas,  saying,  '  Look  ! ' 

Frenhofer  looked  at  his  picture  for  a  moment,  and 
staggered.  '  Nothing  !  nothing  !  And  I  Ve  worked  for 
ten  years.  .  .  .' 

He  sat  down  and  wept. 

'  And  so  I  'm  an  imbecile,  a  madman !  I  have 
neither  talent  nor  capacity !  I  'm  nothing  now  but  a 
rich  man  like  the  rest — as  dull  as  any  of  'em.  I  've 
produced  nothing ! ' 

He  gazed  through  blinding  tears  at  his  picture ;  then 
all  at  once  rose  haughtily,  and  flashed  a  look  at  the 
two  painters. 

'  Oh,  by  the  Blood,  by  the  Body,  by  the  Head  of 
Christ !  you  're  nothing  but  a  pair  of  jealous  thieves  that 
want  me  to  think  she 's  ruined  so  that  you  may  get  her 
away  from  me !  I  can  see  her  ! '  he  cried ;  '  she 's  a 
beauty,  she 's  a  wonder ' 

Just  then,  Poussin  heard  Gillette  sobbing.  She  was 
sitting,  all  forgotten,  in  a  corner. 

'  What 's  the  matter,  my  darling  ? '  asked  the  painter, 
instantly  turning  into  a  lover  again. 

'  Kill  me ! '  she  wept,  '  I  should  be  a  vile  wretch  if  I 
loved  you  still,  for  I  despise  you.  ...  I  admire  you, 
and  you  make  me  shudder !  I  love  you,  and  I  believe 
I  already  detest  you  ! ' 

While  Poussin  was  listening  to  Gillette,  Frenhofer 
was  covering  up  his  picture  with  a  green  cloth,  as 
seriously  and  tranquilly  as  a  jeweller  who  closes  his 


drawers  against  what  he  supposes  to  be  a  gang  of  clever 
thieves.  He  cast  upon  the  two  men  a  profoundly  sinis- 
ter look,  all  scorn  and  distrust,  led  them  silently,  with 
convulsive  rapidity,  to  his  studio-door — then,  on  the 
threshold,  spoke. 

'Good-bye,  my  little  friends.' 

The  tone  chilled  their  blood.  Next  day,  Porbus, 
very  uneasy,  returned — and  learnt  that  Frenhofer  had 
died  in  the  night,  after  burning  his  pictures. 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

DOCTOR  BIANCHON — a  physician  to  whom  science  owes 
a  beautiful  physiological  theory,  and  who,  though  still  a 
young  man,  has  won  himself  a  place  among  the  cele- 
brities of  the  Paris  School,  a  centre  of  light  to  which  all 
the  doctors  of  Europe  pay  homage — had  practised 
surgery  before  devoting  himself  to  medicine.  His  early 
studies  were  directed  by  one  of  the  greatest  surgeons  in 
France,  the  celebrated  Desplein,  who  was  regarded  as  a 
luminary  of  science.  Even  his  enemies  admitted  that 
with  him  was  buried  a  technical  skill  that  he  could  not 
bequeath  to  any  successor.  Like  all  men  of  genius  he 
left  no  heirs.  All  that  was  peculiarly  his  own  he  carried 
to  the  grave  with  him. 

The  glory  of  great  surgeons  is  like  that  of  actors 
whose  work  exists  only  so  long  as  they  live,  and  of 
whose  talent  no  adequate  idea  can  be  formed  when  they 
are  gone.  Actors  and  surgeons,  and  also  great  singers 
like  those  artists  who  increase  tenfold  the  power  of 
music  by  the  way  in  which  they  perform  it — all  these 
are  the  heroes  of  a  moment.  Desplein  is  a  striking 
instance  of  the  similarity  of  the  destinies  of  such  trans- 
itory geniuses.  His  name,  yesterday  so  famous,  to-day 

41 


42  THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

almost  forgotten,  will  live  among  the  specialists  of  his 
own  branch  of  science  without  being  known  beyond  it. 

But  is  not  an  unheard-of  combination  of  circum- 
stances required  for  the  name  of  a  learned  man  to  pass 
from  the  domain  of  science  into  the  general  history  of 
mankind  ?  Had  Desplein  that  universality  of  acquire- 
ments that  makes  of  a  man  the  expression,  the  type  of  a 
century?  He  was  gifted  with  a  magnificent  power  of 
diagnosis.  He  could  see  into  the  patient  and  his 
malady  by  an  acquired  or  natural  intuition,  that  enabled 
him  to  grasp  the  peculiar  characteristics  of  the  indi- 
vidual, and  determine  the  precise  moment,  the  hour,  the 
minute,  when  he  should  operate,  taking  into  account 
both  atmospheric  conditions  and  the  special  tempera- 
ment of  his  patient.  In  order  thus  to  be  able  to  work 
hand  in  hand  with  Nature,  had  he  studied  the  ceaseless 
union  of  organised  and  elementary  substances  contained 
in  the  atmosphere,  or  supplied  by  the  earth  to  man, 
who  absorbs  and  modifies  them  so  as  to  derive  from 
them  an  individual  result  ?  Or  did  he  proceed  by  that 
power  of  deduction  and  analogy  to  which  the  genius  of 
Cuvier  owed  so  much  ? 

However  that  may  be,  this  man  had  made  himself 
master  of  all  the  secrets  of  the  body.  He  knew  it  in  its 
past  as  in  its  future,  taking  the  present  for  his  point  of 
departure.  But  did  he  embody  in  his  own  person  all 
the  science  of  his  time;  as  was  the  case  with  Hippo- 
crates, Galen,  and  Aristotle?  Did  he  lead  a  whole 
school  towards  new  worlds  of  knowledge?  No.  And 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  43 

while  it  is  impossible  to  deny  to  this  indefatigable 
observer  of  the  chemistry  of  the  human  body  the 
possession  of  something  like  the  ancient  science  of 
Magism — that  is  to  say  the  knowledge  of  principles  in 
combination,  of  the  causes  of  life,  of  life  as  the  ante- 
cedent of  life,  and  what  it  will  be  through  the  action  of 
causes  preceding  its  existence — it  must  be  acknowledged 
that  all  this  was  entirely  personal  to  him.  Isolated 
during  his  life  by  egotism,  this  egotism  was  the  suicide 
of  his  fame.  His  tomb  is  not  surmounted  by  a  pre- 
tentious statue  proclaiming  to  the  future  the  mysteries 
that  genius  has  unveiled  for  it. 

But  perhaps  the  talents  of  Desplein  were  linked  with 
his  beliefs,  and  therefore  mortal.  For  him  the  earth's 
atmosphere  was  a  kind  of  envelope  generating  all  things. 
He  regarded  the  earth  as  an  egg  in  its  shell,  and  unable 
to  solve  the  old  riddle  as  to  whether  the  egg  or  the  hen 
came  first,  he  admitted  neither  the  hen  nor  the  egg. 
He  believed  neither  in  a  mere  animal  nature  giving 
origin  to  the  race  of  man,  nor  in  a  spirit  surviving  him. 
Desplein  was  not  in  doubt.  He  asserted  his  theories. 
His  plain  open  atheism  was  like  that  of  many  men, 
some  of  the  best  fellows  in  the  world,  but  invincibly 
atheistic — atheists  of  a  type  of  which  religious  people  do 
not  admit  the  existence.  This  opinion  could  hardly  be 
otherwise  with  a  man  accustomed  from  his  youth  to 
dissect  the  highest  of  beings,  before,  during  and  after 
life,  without  finding  therein  that  one  soul  that  is  so 
necessary  to  religious  theories.  He  recognised  there  a 

E 


44  THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

cerebral  centre,  a  nervous  centre,  and  a  centre  for  the 
respiratory  and  circulatory  system,  and  the  two  former 
so  completely  supplemented  each  other,  that  during  the 
last  part  of  his  life  he  had  the  conviction  that  the  sense 
of  hearing  was  not  absolutely  necessary  for  one  to  hear, 
nor  the  sense  of  vision  absolutely  necessary  for  sight, 
and  that  the  solar  plexus  could  replace  them  without 
one  being  aware  of  the  fact.  Desplein,  recognising 
these  two  souls  in  man,  made  it  an  argument  for  his 
atheism,  without  however  assuming  anything  as  to  the 
belief  in  God.  This  man  was  said  to  have  died  in  final 
impenitence,  as  many  great  geniuses  have  unfortunately 
died,  whom  may  God  forgive. 

Great  as  the  man  was,  his  life  had  in  it  many  '  little- 
nesses '  (to  adopt  the  expression  used  by  his  enemies, 
who  were  eager  to  diminish  his  fame),  though  it  would 
perhaps  be  more  fitting  to  call  them  '  apparent  contra- 
dictions.' failing  to  understand  the  motives  on  which 
high  minds  act,  envious  and  stupid  people  at  once  seize 
hold  of  any  surface  discrepancies  to  base  upon  them 
an  indictment,  on  which  they  straightway  ask  for  judg- 
ment. If,  after  all,  success  crowns  the  methods  they 
have  attacked,  and  shows  the  co-ordination  of  prepara- 
tion and  result,  all  the  same  something  will  remain  of 
these  charges  flung  out  in  advance.  Thus  in  our  time 
Napoleon  was  condemned  by  his  contemporaries  for 
having  spread  the  wings  of  the  eagle  towards  England. 
They  had  to  wait  till  1822  for  the  explanation  of  1804, 
and  of  the  flat-bottomed  boats  of  Boulogne. 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  45 

In  the  case  of  Desplein,  his  fame  and  his  scientific 
knowledge  not  being  open  to  attack,  his  enemies  found 
fault  with  his  strange  whims,  his  singular  character. 
For  he  possessed  in  no  small  degree  that  quality  which 
the  English  call  '  eccentricity.'  Now  he  would  be 
attired  with  a  splendour  that  suggested  Crebillon's 
stately  tragedy ;  and  then  he  would  suddenly  affect  a 
strange  indifference  in  the  matter  of  dress.  One  saw 
him  now  in  a  carriage,  now  on  foot.  By  turns  sharp- 
spoken  and  kindly ;  assuming  an  air  of  closeness  and 
stinginess,  but  at  the  same  time  ready  to  put  his  fortune 
at  the  disposal  of  exiled  professors  of  his  science,  who 
would  do  him  the  honour  of  accepting  his  help  for  a 
few  days — no  one  ever  gave  occasion  for  more  contra- 
dictory judgments.  Although  for  the  sake  of  obtaining 
a  decoration  that  doctors  were  not  allowed  to  canvass 
for,  he  was  quite  capable  of  letting  a  prayer-book  slip 
out  of  his  pocket  when  at  court,  you  may  take  it  that  in 
his  own  mind  he  made  a  mockery  of  everything.  He 
had  a  deep  disdain  for  men,  after  having  caught 
glimpses  of  their  true  character  in  the  midst  of  the 
most  solemn  and  the  most  trivial  acts  of  their  existence. 
In  a  great  man  all  his  characteristics  are  generally  in 
keeping  with  each  other.  If  one  of  these  giants  has 
more  talent  than  wit,  it  is  all  the  same  true  that  his  wit 
is  something  deeper  than  that  of  one  of  whom  all  that 
can  be  said  is  that  'He  is  a  witty  fellow.'  Genius 
always  implies  a  certain  insight  into  the  moral  side  of 
things.  This  insight  may  be  applied  to  one  special  line 


46 

of  thought,  but  one  cannot  see  the  flower  without  at 
the  same  time  seeing  the  sun  that  produces  it.  The 
man  who,  hearing  a  diplomatist  whom  he  was  saving 
from  death  ask, '  How  is  the  Emperor  ? '  remarked,  'The 
courtier  is  recovering,  and  the  man  will  recover  with 
him  ! '  was  not  merely  a  doctor  or  a  surgeon,  but  was 
also  not  without  a  considerable  amount  of  wit.  Thus 
the  patient,  unwearying  observation  of  mankind  might 
do  something  to  justify  the  exorbitant  pretensions  of 
Desplein,  and  make  one  admit  that,  as  he  himself 
believed,  he  was  capable  of  winning  as  much  distinction 
as  a  Minister  of  State,  as  he  had  gained  as  a  surgeon. 

Amongst  the  problems  that  the  life  of  Desplein  pre- 
sented to  the  minds  of  his  contemporaries,  we  have 
chosen  one  of  the  most  interesting,  because  the  key  to 
it  will  be  found  in  the  ending  of  the  story,  and  will 
serve  to  clear  him  of  many  stupid  accusations  made 
against  him. 

Among  all  Desplein's  pupils  at  the  hospital,  Horace 
Bianchon  was  one  of  those  to  whom  he  was  most  strongly 
attached.  Before  becoming  a  resident  student  at  the 
Hotel  Dieu,  Horace  Bianchon  was  a  medical  student,  liv- 
ing in  the  Quartier  Latin  in  a  wretched  lodging-house, 
known  by  the  name  of  the  Maison  Vauquer.  There  the 
poor  young  fellow  experienced  the  pressure  of  that  acute 
poverty,  which  is  a  kind  of  crucible,  whence  men  of 
great  talent  are  expected  to  come  forth  pure  and  in- 
corruptible, like  a  diamond  that  can  be  subjected  to 
blows  of  all  kinds  without  breaking.  Though  the  fierce 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  47 

fire  of  passion  has  been  aroused,  they  acquire  a  pro- 
bity that  it  cannot  alter,  and  they  become  used  to 
struggles  that  are  the  lot  of  genius,  in  the  midst  of  the 
ceaseless  toil,  in  which  they  curb  desires  that  are  not 
to  be  satisfied.  Horace  was  an  upright  young  man, 
incapable  of  taking  any  crooked  course  in  matters  where 
honour  was  involved ;  going  straight  to  the  point ;  ready 
to  pawn  his  overcoat  for  his  friends,  as  he  was  to  give 
them  his  time  and  his  long  vigils.  In  a  word  Horace  was 
one  of  those  friends  who  do  not  trouble  themselves  as  to 
what  they  are  to  receive  in  return  for  what  they  bestow, 
taking  it  for  granted  that,  when  it  comes  to  their  turn, 
they  will  get  more  than  they  give.  Most  of  his  friends 
had  for  him  that  heart-felt  respect  which  is  inspired  by 
unostentatious  worth,  and  many  of  them  would  have 
been  afraid  to  provoke  his  censure.  But  Horace  mani- 
fested these  good  qualities  without  any  pedantic  display. 
Neither  a  puritan  nor  a  preacher,  he  would  in  his 
simplicity  enforce  a  word  of  good  advice  with  any  oath, 
and  was  ready  for  a  bit  of  good  cheer  when  the  occasion 
offered.  A  pleasant  comrade,  with  no  more  shyness 
than  a  trooper,  frank  and  outspoken— not  as  a  sailor, 
for  the  sailor  of  to-day  is  a  wily  diplomatist — but  as  a 
fane  young  fellow,  who  has  nothing  in  his  life  to  be 
ashamed  of,  he  went  his  way  with  head  erect  and  with 
a  cheerful  mind.  To  sum  it  all  up  in  one  word,  Horace 
was  the  Pylades  of  more  than  one  Orestes,  creditors 
nowadays  playing  most  realistically  the  part  of  the 
Furies.  He  bore  his  poverty  with  that  gaiety  which  is 


48  THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

perhaps  one  of  the  chief  elements  of  courage,  and,  like 
all  those  who  have  nothing,  he  contracted  very  few 
debts.  As  enduring  as  a  camel,  as  alert  as  a  wild  deer, 
he  was  steadfast  in  his  ideas  and  in  his  conduct. 

The  happiness  of  Bianchon's  life  began  on  the  day 
when  the  famous  surgeon  became  acquainted  with  the 
good  qualities  and  the  defects,  which,  each  as  well  as 
the  other,  make  Dr.  Horace  Bianchon  doubly  dear  to 
his  friends.  When  the  teacher  of  a  hospital  class 
receives  a  young  man  into  his  inner  circle,  that  young 
man,  has,  as  the  saying  goes,  his  foot  in  the  stirrup. 
Desplein  did  not  fail  to  take  Bianchon  with  him  as  his 
assistant  to  wealthy  houses,  where  nearly  always  a 
gratuity  slipped  into  the  purse  of  the  student,  and 
where,  all  unconsciously,  the  young  provincial  had  re- 
vealed to  him  some  of  the  mysteries  of  Parisian  life. 
Desplein  would  have  him  in  his  study  during  consulta- 
tions, and  found  work  for  him  there.  Sometimes  he 
would  send  him  to  a  watering  place,  as  companion  to  a 
rich  invalid, — in  a  word,  he  was  preparing  a  professional 
connection  for  him.  The  result  of  all  this  was  that 
after  a  certain  time  the  tyrant  of  the  operating  theatre 
had  his  right-hand  man.  These  two — one  of  them  at 
the  summit  of  professional  honours  and  science,  and  in 
the  enjoyment  of  an  immense  fortune  and  an  equal 
renown,  the  other  a  modest  cipher  without  fortune  or 
fame — became  intimate  friends.  The  great  Desplein 
told  everything  to  his  pupil.  Bianchon  came  to  know 
the  mysteries  of  this  temperament,  half  lion,  half  bull, 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  49 

that  in  the  end  caused  an  abnormal  expansion  of  the 
great  man's  chest  and  killed  him  by  enlargement  of 
the  heart.  He  studied  the  odd  whims  of  this  busy  life, 
the  schemes  of  its  sordid  avarice,  the  projects  of  this 
politician  disguised  as  a  man  of  science.  He  was  able 
to  forecast  the  disappointments  that  awaited  the  one 
touch  of  sentiment  that  was  buried  in  a  heart  not  of 
stone  though  made  to  seem  like  stone. 

One  day  Bianchon  told  Desplein  that  a  poor  water- 
carrier  in  the  Quartier  Saint-Jacques  was  suffering  from 
a  horrible  illness  caused  by  overwork  and  poverty. 
This  poor  native  of  Auvergne  had  only  potatoes  to  eat 
during  the  hard  winter  of  1821.  Desplein  left  all  his 
patients.  At  the  risk  of  breaking  down  his  horse,  he 
drove  at  full  speed,  accompanied  by  Bianchon,  to  the 
poor  man's  lodging,  and  himself  superintended  his 
removal  to  a  private  nursing  home  established  by  the 
celebrated  Dubois  in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Denis.  He 
went  to  attend  to  the  man  himself,  and  gave  him,  when 
he  had  recovered,  money  enough  to  buy  a  horse  and  a 
water-cart.  The  Auvergnat  distinguished  himself  by  an 
unconventional  proceeding.  One  of  his  friends  fell 
sick,  and  he  at  once  brought  him  to  Desplein,  and  said 
to  his  benefactor : — 

'  I  would  not  think  of  allowing  him  to  go  to  any  one 
else.' 

Overwhelmed  with  work  as  he  was,  Desplein  grasped 
the  water-carrier's  hand  and  said  to  him  : — 

'  Bring  them  all  to  me.' 


50  THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

He  had  this  poor  fellow  from  the  Cantal  admitted  to 
the  Hotel  Dieu,  where  he  took  the  greatest  care  of  him. 
Bianchon  had  on  many  occasions  remarked  that  his 
chief  had  a  particular  liking  for  people  from  Auvergne, 
and  especially  for  the  water-carriers ;  but  as  Desplein 
took  a  kind  of  pride  in  his  treatment  of  his  poor 
patients  at  the  Hotel  Dieu,  his  pupil  did  not  see  any- 
thing very  strange  in  this. 

One  day  when  Bianchon  was  crossing  the  Place 
Saint-Sulpice  he  caught  sight  of  his  teacher  going  into 
the  church  about  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
Desplein,  who  at  this  period  would  not  go  a  step  with- 
out calling  for  his  carriage,  was  on  foot,  and  slipped  in 
quietly  by  the  side  door  in  the  Rue  du  Petit  Lion,  as  if 
he  was  going  into  some  doubtful  place.  The  student  was 
naturally  seized  by  a  great  curiosity,  for  he  knew  the 
opinions  of  his  master;  so  Bianchon  too  slipped  into 
Saint-Sulpice  and  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  see  the 
famous  Desplein,  this  atheist,  who  thought  very  little  of 
angels,  as  beings  who  give  no  scope  for  surgery,  this 
scoffer,  humbly  kneeling,  and  where  ?  ...  in  the  Lady 
Chapel,  where  he  heard  a  mass,  gave  an  alms  for  the 
church  expenses  and  for  the  poor,  and  remained 
throughout  as  serious  as  if  he  were  engaged  in  an 
operation. 

Bianchon's  astonishment  knew  no  bounds.  '  If,'  he 
said  to  himself,  '  I  had  seen  him  holding  one  of  the 
cords  of  the  canopy  at  a  public  procession  on  Corpus 
Christi  I  might  just  laugh  at  him ;  but  at  this  time  of 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  51 

day,  all  alone,  without  any  one  to  see  him,  this  is 
certainly  something  to  set  one  thinking  ! ' 

Bianchon  had  no  wish  to  appear  to  be  playing  the 
spy  on  the  chief  surgeon  of  the  Hotel  Dieu,  so  he  went 
away.  It  so  happened  that  Desplein  asked  him  to  dine 
with  him  that  day,  not  at  his  house  but  at  a  restaurant. 
Between  the  cheese  and  the  dessert  Bianchon,  by 
cleverly  leading  up  to  it,  managed  to  say  something  about 
the  mass,  and  spoke  of  it  as  a  mummery  and  a  farce. 

'A  farce,'  said  Desplein,  'that  has  cost  Christendom 
more  bloodshed  than  all  the  battles  of  Napoleon,  all  the 
leeches  of  Broussais.  It  is  a  papal  invention,  that  only 
dates  from  the  sixth  century.  What  torrents  of  blood 
were  not  shed  to  establish  the  feast  of  Corpus  Christi, 
by  which  the  Court  of  Rome  sought  to  mark  its  victory 
in  the  question  of  the  real  presence,  and  the  schism  that 
has  troubled  the  church  for  three  centuries  !  The  wars 
of  the  Count  of  Toulouse  and  the  Albigenses  were  the 
sequel  of  that  affair.  The  Vaudois  and  the  Albigenses 
refused  to  recognise  the  innovation.' 

In  a  word  Desplein  took  a  pleasure  in  giving  vent  to 
all  his  atheistic  ardour,  and  there  was  a  torrent  of 
Voltairian  witticisms,  or  to  describe  it  more  accurately, 
a  detestable  imitation  of  the  style  of  the  Citateur.1 

1  Hum  ! '  said  Bianchon  to  himself,  '  what  has  become 
of  my  devotee  of  this  morning  ? ' 

1  The  Citatettf,  a  now  forgotten  book  by  Pigault  Lebrun,  pub- 
lished at  Paris  in  1803 — a  kind  of  popular  summary  of  current 
attacks  on  the  clergy  and  their  teachings. — Translator. 


Sa  THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

He  kept  silent.  He  began  to  doubt  if  it  was  really 
his  chief  that  he  had  seen  at  Saint-Sulpice.  Desplein 
would  not  have  taken  the  trouble  to  lie  to  Bianchon. 
They  knew  each  other  too  well.  They  had  already 
exchanged  ideas  on  points  quite  as  serious,  and  dis- 
cussed systems  of  the  nature  of  things,  exploring  and 
dissecting  them  with  the  knives  and  scalpels  of  in- 
credulity. 

Three  months  went  by.  Bianchon  took  no  further 
step  in  connection  with  the  incident,  though  it  remained 
graven  in  his  memory.  One  day  that  year  one  of  the 
doctors  of  the  Hotel  Dieu  took  Desplein  by  the  arm  in 
Bianchon's  presence,  as  if  he  had  a  question  to  put  to 
him. 

'  Whatever  do  you  go  to  Saint-Sulpice  for,  my  dear 
master  ? '  he  said  to  him. 

'To  see  one  of  the  priests  there,  who  has  caries  in 
the  knee,  and  whom  Madame  the  Duchess  of  Angou- 
leme  did  me  the  honour  to  recommend  to  my  care,' 
said  Desplein. 

The  doctor  was  satisfied  with  this  evasion,  but  not  so 
Bianchon. 

'  Ah,  he  goes  to  see  diseased  knees  in  the  church ! 
Why,  he  went  to  hear  mass ! '  said  the  student  to 
himself. 

Bianchon  made  up  his  mind  to  keep  a  watch  on 
Desplein.  He  remembered  the  day,  the  hour,  when 
he  had  caught  him  going  into  Saint-Sulpice,  and  he 
promised  himself  that  he  would  be  there  next  year  on 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  53 

the  same  day  and  at  the  same  hour,  to  see  if  he  would 
catch  him  again.  In  this  case  the  recurring  date  of 
his  devotions  would  give  ground  for  a  scientific  investi- 
gation, for  one  ought  not  to  expect  to  find  in  such 
a  man  a  direct  contradiction  between  thought  and 
action. 

Next  year,  on  the  day  and  at  the  hour,  Bianchon, 
who  by  this  time  was  no  longer  one  of  Desplein's 
resident  students,  saw  the  surgeon's  carriage  stop  at 
the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  Tournon  and  the  Rue  du 
Petit  Lion.  His  friend  got  out,  passed  stealthily  along 
by  the  wall  of  Saint-Sulpice,  and  once  more  heard  his 
mass  at  the  Lady  altar.  It  was  indeed  Desplein,  the 
chief  surgeon  of  the  hospital,  the  atheist  at  heart,  the 
devotee  at  haphazard.  The  problem  was  getting  to  be 
a  puzzle.  The  persistence  of  the  illustrious  man  of 
science  made  it  all  very  complicated.  When  Desplein 
had  gone  out  Bianchon  went  up  to  the  sacristan,  who 
came  to  do  his  work  in  the  chapel,  and  asked  him  if 
that  gentleman  was  a  regular  attendant  there. 

'Well,  I  have  been  here  twenty  years,'  said  the 
sacristan,  'and  all  that  time  M.  Desplein  has  come 
four  times  a  year  to  be  present  at  this  mass.  He 
founded  it.' 

'  A  foundation  made  by  him  ! '  said  Bianchon,  as  he 
went  away.  'Well,  it  is  more  wonderful  than  all  the 
mysteries.' 

Some  time  passed  by  before  Dr.  Bianchon,  although 
the  friend  of  Desplein,  found  an  opportunity  to  talk  to 


54  THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

him  of  this  singular  incident  in  his  life.  Though  they 
met  in  consultation  or  in  society,  it  was  difficult  to  get 
that  moment  of  confidential  chat  alone  together,  when 
two  men  sit  with  their  feet  on  the  fender,  and  their 
heads  resting  on  the  backs  of  their  arm-chairs,  and  tell 
each  other  their  secrets.  At  last,  after  a  lapse  of  seven 
years,  and  after  the  Revolution  of  1830,  when  the 
people  had  stormed  the  Archbishop's  house,  when 
Republican  zeal  led  them  to  destroy  the  gilded  crosses 
that  shone  like  rays  of  light  above  the  immense  sea 
of  housetops,  when  unbelief  side  by  side  with  revolt 
paraded  the  streets,  Bianchon  again  came  upon  Des- 
plein  as  he  entered  the  church  of  Saint-Sulpice.  The 
doctor  followed  him  in,  and  took  his  place  beside  him, 
without  his  friend  taking  any  notice  of  him,  or  showing 
the  least  surprise.  Together  they  heard  the  mass  he 
had  founded. 

'Will  you  tell  me,  my  dear  friend,'  said  Bianchon  to 
Desplein,  when  they  left ;  the  church,  'the  reason  for 
this  monkish  proceeding  of  yours?  I  have  already 
caught  you  going  to  mass  three  times,  you  of  all  men ! 
You  must  tell  me  the  meaning  of  this  mystery,  and 
explain  to  me  this  flagrant  contradiction  between  your 
opinions  and  your  conduct.  You  don't  believe  in  God 
and  you  go  to  mass  !  My  dear  master,  you  are  bound 
to  give  me  an  answer.' 

'I  am  like  a  good  many  devotees,  men  deeply 
religious  to  all  appearance,  but  quite  as  much  atheists 
as  we  can  be,  you  and  I.' 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  55 

And  then  there  was  a  torrent  of  epigrams  referring  to 
certain  political  personages,  the  best  known  of  whom 
presents  us  in  our  own  time  with  a  new  edition  of  the 
Tartuffe  of  Moliere. 

'I  am  not  asking  you  about  all  that,'  said  Bianchon. 
'  But  I  do  want  to  know  the  reason  for  what  you  have 
just  been  doing  here.  Why  have  you  founded  this 
mass  ? ' 

'  My  word  !  my  dear  friend,'  said  Desplein,  '  I  am 
on  the  brink  of  the  grave,  and  I  may  just  as  well  talk 
to  you  about  the  early  days  of  my  life.' 

Just  then  Bianchon  and  the  great  man  were  in  the 
Rue  des  Quatre  Vents,  one  of  the  most  horrible  streets 
in  Paris.  Desplein  pointed  to  the  sixth  story  of  one 
of  those  high,  narrow-fronted  houses  that  stand  like 
obelisks.  The  outer  door  opens  on  a  passage,  at  the 
end  of  which  is  a  crooked  stair,  lighted  by  those  small 
inner  windows  that  are  aptly  called  jours  de  souff- 
rance.1  It  was  a  house  with  a  greenish-coloured  front, 
with  a  furniture  dealer  installed  on  the  ground  floor, 
and  apparently  a  different  type  of  wretchedness  lodging 
in  every  story.  As  he  raised  his  arm  with  a  gesture 
that  was  full  of  energy,  Desplein  said  to  Bianchon — 

'  I  lived  up  there  for  two  years  ! ' 

1  A  pun  generally  evaporates  and  disappears  in  the  process  of 
translation.  Jours  de  souffrance  suggests  '  days  of  endurance ' ; 
but  taking/0«r  in  the  sense  of  a  window  or  opening  giving  light 
it  refers  here  to  windows  on  a  stair  or  passage,  getting  their  light 
not  from  the  open  air  but  from  one  of  the  rooms,  '  borrowed 
lights,"  as  we  sometimes  call  them.  —  Translator. 


56  THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

1 1  know  that.  D'Arthez  used  to  live  there.  I  came 
there  nearly  every  day  when  I  was  quite  a  young  fellow, 
and  in  those  days  we  used  to  call  it  "  the  store  bottle  of 
great  men  !  "  Well,  what  comes  next?' 

'  The  mass  that  I  have  just  heard  is  connected  with 
events  that  occurred  when  I  was  living  in  that  garret 
in  which  you  tell  me  D'Arthez  once  lived,  the  room 
from  the  window  of  which  there  is  a  line  hanging  with 
clothes  drying  on  it,  just  above  the  flower-pot.  I  had 
such  a  rough  start  in  life,  my  dear  Bianchon,  that  I 
could  dispute  with  any  one  you  like  the  palm  for  suffer- 
ing endured  here  in  Paris.  I  bo*e  it  all,  hunger,  thirst, 
want  of  money,  lack  of  clothes,  boots,  linen — all  that 
is  hardest  in  poverty.  I  have  tried  to  warm  my  frozen 
fingers  with  my  breath  in  that  "store  bottle  of  great 
men,"  which  I  should  like  to  revisit  with  you.  As  I 
worked  in  the  winter  a  vapour  would  rise  from  my 
head,  and  I  could  see  the  steam  of  perspiration  like  we 
see  it  about  the  horses  on  a  frosty  day.  I  don't  know 
where  one  finds  the  foothold  to  stand  up  against  such 
a  life.  I  was  all  alone,  without  help,  without  a  penny 
to  buy  books  or  to  pay  the  expenses  of  my  medical 
education  :  without  a  friend,  for  my  irritable,  gloomy, 
nervous  character  did  me  harm.  No  one  would  recog- 
nise in  my  fits  of  irritation  the  distress,  the  struggles  of 
a  man  who  is  striving  to  rise  to  the  surface  from  his 
place  in  the  very  depths  of  the  social  system.  But  I 
can  say  to  you,  in  whose  presence  I  have  no  need  to 
cloak  myself  in  any  way,  that  I  had  that  basis  of  sound 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  57 

ideas  and  impressionable  feelings,  which  will  always  be 
part  of  the  endowment  of  men  strong  enough  to  climb 
up  to  some  summit,  after  having  long  plodded  through 
the  morass  of  misery.  I  could  not  look  for  any  help 
from  my  family  or  my  native  place  beyond  the  in- 
sufficient allowance  that  was  made  to  me.  To  sum  it 
all  up,  at  that  time  my  breakfast  in  the  morning  was  a 
roll  that  a  baker  in  the  Rue  du  Petit  Lion  sold  cheaply 
to  me  because  it  was  from  the  baking  of  yesterday  or 
the  day  before,  and  which  I  broke  up  into  some  milk ; 
thus  my  morning  meal  did  not  cost  me  more  than  a 
penny.  I  dined  only  every  second  day,  in  a  boarding- 
house  where  one  could  get  a  dinner  for  eightpence. 
Thus  I  spent  only  fourpence-halfpenny  a  day.  You 
know  as  well  as  I  do  what  care  I  would  take  of  such 
things  as  clothes  and  boots !  I  am  not  sure  that  in 
later  life  we  feel  more  trouble  at  the  treachery  of  a 
colleague  than  we  have  felt,  you  and  I,  at  discovering 
the  mocking  grimace  of  a  boot  sole  that  is  coming  away 
from  the  sewing,  or  at  hearing  the  rending  noise  of  a 
torn  coat  cuff.  I  drank  only  water.  I  looked  at  the 
cafes  with  the  greatest  respect.  The  Cafe  Zoppi 
seemed  to  me  like  a  promised  land,  whefe  the  Lucul- 
luses  of  the  Quartier  Latin  had  the  exclusive  right  of 
entry.  "  Shall  I  ever,"  I  used  sometimes  to  ask  myself, 
"  shall  I  ever  be  able  to  go  in  there  to  take  a  cup  of 
coffee  and  hot  milk,  or  to  play  a  game  of  dominoes  ?  " 

'  Well  I  brought  to  my  work  the  furious  energy  that 
my  poverty  inspired.     I  tried  rapidly  to  get  a  grasp  of 


58  THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

exact  knowledge  so  as  to  acquire  an  immense  personal 
worth  in  order  to  deserve  the  position  I  hoped  to  reach 
in  the  days  when  I  would  have  come  forth  from  my 
nothingness.  I  consumed  more  oil  than  bread.  The 
lamp  that  lighted  me  during  these  nights  of  persistent 
toil  cost  me  more  than  my  food.  The  struggle  was 
long,  obstinate,  without  encouragement.  I  had  won  no 
sympathy  from  those  around  me.  To  have  friends 
must  one  not  associate  with  other  young  fellows,  and 
have  a  few  pence  to  take  a  drink  with  them,  and  go 
with  them  wherever  students  are  to  be  found  ?  I  had 
nothing.  And  no  one  in  Paris  quite  realises  that  nothing 
is  really  nothing.  If  I  ever  had  any  occasion  to  reveal 
my  misery  I  felt  in  my  throat  that  nervous  contraction 
that  makes  our  patients  sometimes  imagine  there  is  a 
round  mass  coming  up  the  gullet  into  the  larynx. 
Later  on  I  have  come  across  people,  who,  having  been 
born  in  wealth  and  never  wanted  for  anything,  knew 
nothing  of  that  problem  of  the  Rule  of  Three :  A 
young  man  is  to  a  crime  as  a  five  franc  piece  is  to  the 
unknown  quantity  X.  These  gilded  fools  would  say  to 
me: — 

' "  But  why  do  you  get  into  debt  ?  Why  ever  do  you 
contract  serious  obligations  ?  " 

'  They  remind  me  of  that  princess,  who,  on  hearing 
that  the  people  were  in  want  of  bread,  said  : — "  Why 
don't  they  buy  sponge  cakes?"  I  should  like  very 
much  to  see  one  of  those  rich  men,  who  complains  that 
I  ask  him  for  too  high  a  fee  when  there  has  to  be  an 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  59 

operation — yes,  I  should  like  to  see  him  all  alone  in 
Paris,  without  a  penny,  without  luggage,  without  a 
friend,  without  credit,  and  forced  to  work  his  five 
fingers  to  the  bone  to  get  a  living.  What  would  he  do  ? 
Where  would  he  go  to  satisfy  his  hunger  ?  Bianchon, 
if  you  have  sometimes  seen  me  bitter  and  hard,  it  was 
because  I  was  then  thinking  at  once  of  my  early 
troubles  and  of  the  heartlessness,  the  selfishness  of 
which  I  have  seen  a  thousand  instances  in  the  highest 
circles ;  or  else  I  was  thinking  Of  the  obstacles  that 
hatred,  envy,  jealousy,  calumny  have  raised  up  between 
me  and  success.  In  Paris  when  certain  people  see  you 
ready  to  put  your  foot  in  the  stirrup,  some  of  them  pull 
at  the  skirt  of  your  coat,  others  loosen  the  saddle  girth ; 
this  one  knocks  a  shoe  off  your  horse,  that  one  steals 
your  whip ;  the  least  treacherous  of  the  lot  is  the  one 
you  see  coming  to  fire  a  pistol  at  you  point  blank.  You 
have  talent  enough,  my  dear  fellow,  to  know  soon 
enough  the  horrible,  the  unceasing  warfare  that  medi- 
ocrity carries  on  against  the  man  that  is  its  superior.  If 
one  evening  you  lose  twenty-five  fouis,  next  morning 
you  will  be  accused  of  being  a  gambler,  and  your  best 
friends  will  say  that  you  have  lost  twenty-five  thousand 
francs  last  night.  If  you  have  a  headache,  you  will  be 
set  down  as  a  lunatic.  If  you  are  not  lively,  you  will  be 
set  down  as  unsociable.  If  to  oppose  this  battalion  of 
pygmies,  you  call  up  your  own  superior  powers,  your 
best  friends  will  cry  out  that  you  wish  to  devour  every- 
thing, that  you  claim  to  lord  it  and  play  the  tyrant.  In 

F 


6o 

a  word  your  good  qualities  will  be  turned  into  defects, 
your  defects  will  be  turned  into  vices,  and  your  virtues 
will  be  crimes.  If  you  have  saved  some  one,  it  will  be 
said  that  you  have  killed  him.  If  your  patient  re- 
appears, it  will  be  agreed  that  you  have  made  sure  of 
the  present  at  the  expense  of  his  future ;  though  he  is 
not  dead,  he  will  die.  If  you  stumble,  it  will  be  a  fall ! 
Invent  anything  whatever,  and  assert  your  rights,  and 
you  will  be  a  difficult  man  to  deal  with,  a  sharp  fellow, 
who  does  not  like  to  see  young  men  succeed.  So,  my 
dear  friend,  if  I  do  not  believe  in  God,  I  believe  even 
less  in  man.  Do  you  not  recognise  in  me  a  Desplein 
that  is  quite  different  from  the  Desplein  about  whom 
every  one  speaks  ill  ?  But  we  need  not  dig  into  that 
heap  of  mud. 

'  Well,  I  was  living  in  that  house,  I  had  to  work  to  be 
ready  to  pass  my  first  examination,  and  I  had  not  a 
farthing.  You  know  what  it  is  !  I  had  come  to  one  of 
those  crises  of  utter  extremity  when  one  says  to  oneself : 
— "  I  will  enlist !  "  I  had  one  hope.  I  was  expecting 
from  my  native  place  a  trunk  full  of  linen,  a  present 
from  some  old  aunts,  who,  knowing  nothing  of  Paris, 
think  about  providing  one  with  dress  shirts,  because 
they  imagine  that  with  thirty  francs  a  month  their 
nephew  dines  on  ortolans.  The  trunk  arrived  while  I 
was  away  at  the  Medical  School.  It  had  cost  forty 
francs,  carriage  to  be  paid.  The  concierge  of  the  house, 
a  German  cobbler,  who  lived  in  a  loft,  had  paid  the 
money  and  held  the  trunk.  I  took  a  walk  in  the  Rue 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  61 

des  Fosse-Saint-Germain-des-Pres  and  in  the  Rue  de 
1'Ecole  de  Medicine,  without  being  able  to  invent  a 
stratagem,  which  would  put  the  trunk  in  my  possession, 
without  my  being  obliged  to  pay  down  the  forty  francs, 
which  of  course  I  meant  to  pay  after  selling  the  linen. 
My  stupidity  seemed  a  very  fair  sign  to  me  that  I  was 
fit  for  no  vocation  but  surgery.  My  dear  friend, 
delicately  organised  natures,  whose  powers  are  exercised 
in  some  higher  sphere,  are  wanting  in  that  spirit  of 
intrigue,  which  is  fertile  in  resources  and  shifts.  Genius 
such  as  theirs  depends  on  chance.  They  do  not  seek 
out  things,  they  come  upon  them. 

'  At  last,  after  dark,  I  went  back  to  the  house,  just  at 
the  moment  when  my  next  room  neighbour  was  coming 
in,  a  water-carrier  named  Bourgeat,  a  man  from  Saint- 
Flour  in  Auvergne.  We  knew  each  other  in  the  way 
in  which  two  lodgers  come  to  know  each  other,  when 
both  have  their  rooms  on  the  same  landing,  and  they 
can  hear  each  other  going  to  bed,  coughing,  getting  up, 
and  end  by  becoming  quite  used  to  each  other.  My 
neighbour  informed  me  that  the  landlord,  to  whom  I 
owed  three  months'  rent,  had  sent  me  notice  to  quit.  I 
must  clear  out  next  day.  He  himself  was  to  be  evicted 
on  account  of  his  business.  I  passed  the  most  sorrow- 
ful night  of  my  life. 

'  Where  was  I  to  find  a  porter  to  remove  my  poor 
belongings,  my  books  ?  How  was  I  to  pay  the  porter 
and  the  concierge  ?  Where  could  I  go  ?  With  tears  in 
my  eyes  I  repeated  these  insoluble  questions,  as 


62  THE  ATHEISTS  MASS 

lunatics  repeat  their  catchwords.  I  fell  asleep.  For 
the  wretched  there  is  a  divine  sleep  full  of  beautiful 
dreams.  Next  morning,  while  I  was  eating  my  porringer 
full  of  bread  crumbled  into  milk,  Bourgeat  came  in, 
and  said  to  me  in  bad  French : — 

":  Mister  Student,  I  'm  a  poor  man,  a  foundling  of  the 
hospice  of  Saint-Flour,  without  father  or  mother,  and 
not  rich  enough  to  marry.  You  are  not  much  better  off 
for  relations,  or  better  provided  with  what  counts? 
Now,  see  here,  I  have  down  below  a  hand-cart  that  I 
have  hired  at  a  penny  an  hour.  All  our  things  can  be 
packed  on  it.  If  you  agree,  we  will  look  for  a  place 
where  we  can  lodge  together,  since  we  are  turned  out 
of  this.  And  after  all  it's  not  the  earthly  paradise." 

' "  I  know  it  well,  my  good  Bourgeat,"  said  I  to  him, 
"  but  I  am  in  a  great  difficulty.  There 's  a  trunk  for  me 
downstairs  that  contains  linen  worth  a  hundred  crowns, 
with  which  I  could  pay  the  landlord  and  what  I  owe  to 
the  concierge,  and  I  have  not  got  as  much  as  a  hundred 
sous." 

'"Bah!  I  have  some  bits  of  coin,"  Bourgeat  answered 
me  joyfully,  showing  me  an  old  purse  of  greasy  leather. 
"  Keep  your  linen." 

'  Bourgeat  paid  my  three  months,  and  his  own  rent, 
and  settled  with  the  concierge.  Then  he  put  our 
furniture  and  my  box  of  linen  on  his  hand-cart  and 
drew  it  through  the  streets,  stopping  at  every  house 
that  showed  a  "  Lodgings  to  Let "  card.  As  for  me  I 
would  go  upstairs  to  see  if  the  place  to  let  would  suit 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  63 

us.  At  noon  we  were  still  wandering  about  the 
Quartier  Latin  without  having  found  anything.  The 
rent  was  the  great  obstacle.  Bourgeat  proposed  to  me 
to  have  lunch  at  a  wine-shop,  at  the  door  of  which  we 
left  the  hand-cart.  Towards  evening,  in  the  Cour  de 
Rohan  off  the  Passage  du  Commerce,  I  found,  under 
the  roof  at  the  top  of  a  house,  two  rooms,  one  on  each 
side  of  the  staircase.  We  got  them  for  a  rent  of  sixty 
francs  a  year  each.  So  there  we  were  housed,  myself 
and  my  humble  friend. 

'We  dined  together.  Bourgeat,  who  earned  some 
fifty  sous  a  day,  had  saved  about  a  hundred  crowns.  .  .  . 
He  would  soon  be  in  a  position  to  realise  his  ambition 
and  buy  a  water-cart  and  a  horse.  When  he  found  out 
how  I  was  situated— and  he  wormed  out  my  secrets 
with  a  depth  of  cunning  and  at  the  same  time  with  a 
kindly  good  nature  that  still  moves  my  heart  to-day 
when  I  think  of  it — he  renounced  for  some  time  to 
come  the  ambition  of  his  life.  Bourgeat  had  been  a 
street  seller  for  twenty-two  years.  He  sacrificed  his 
hundred  crowns  for  my  future.' 

At  this  point  Desplein  took  a  firm  grip  of  Bianchon's 
arm. 

'He  gave  me  the  money  required  for  my  examina- 
tions !  This  man,  understood,  my  friend,  that  I  had  a 
mission,  that  the  needs  of  my  intelligence  came  before 
his.  He  busied  himself  with  me,  he  called  me  his 
"  little  one,"  he  lent  me  the  money  I  wanted  to  buy 
books;  he  came  in  sometimes  quite  quietly  to  watch 


64  THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

me  at  my  work ;  finally  he  took  quite  a  motherly  care 
to  see  that  I  substituted  a  wholesome  and  abundant 
diet  for  the  bad  and  insufficient  fare  to  which  I  had 
been  condemned.  Bourgeat,  a  man  of  about  forty,  had 
the  features  of  a  burgess  of  the  middle  ages,  a  full 
rounded  forehead,  a  head  that  a  painter  might  have 
posed  as  the  model  for  a  Lycurgus.  The  poor  man  felt 
his  heart  big  with  affection  seeking  for  some  object. 
He  had  never  been  loved  by  anything  but  a  poodle, 
that  had  died  a  short  time  before,  and  about  which  he 
was  always  talking  to  me,  asking  if  by  any  possibility 
the  church  would  consent  to  have  prayers  for  its  soul. 
His  dog,  he  said,  had  been  really  like  a  Christian,  and 
for  twelve  years  it  had  gone  to  church  with  him,  without 
ever  barking,  listening  to  the  organ  without  so  much  as 
opening  its  mouth,  and  remaining  crouched  beside  him 
with  a  look  that  made  one  think  it  was  praying  with 
him.  This  man  transferred  all  his  affection  to  me.  He 
took  me  up  as  a  lonely,  suffering  creature.  He  became 
for  me  like  a  most  watchful  mother,  the  most  delicately 
thoughtful  of  benefactors,  in  a  word  the  ideal  of  that 
virtue  that  rejoices  in  its  own  good  work.  When  I  met 
him  in  the  street  he  gave  me  an  intelligent  look,  full  of 
a  nobility  that  you  cannot  imagine ;  he  would  then 
assume  a  gait  like  that  of  a  man  who  was  carrying  no 
burden;  he  seemed  delighted  at  seeing  me  in  good 
health  and  well  dressed.  It  was  such  devoted  affection 
as  one  finds  among  the  common  people,  the  love  of  the 
little  shop  girl,  raised  to  a  higher  level.  Bourgeat  ran 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  65 

my  errands.  He  woke  me  up  in  the  night  at  the 
appointed  hour.  He  trimmed  my  lamp,  scrubbed  our 
landing.  He  was  a  good  servant  as  well  as  a  good 
father  to  me,  and  as  cleanly  in  his  work  as  an  English 
maid.  He  looked  after  our  housekeeping.  Like 
Philopoemon  he  sawed  up  our  firewood,  and  he  set  about 
all  his  actions  with  a  simplicity  in  performing  them  that 
at  the  same  time  preserved  his  dignity,  for  he  seemed 
to  realise  that  the  end  in  view  ennobled  it  all. 

'  When  I  left  this  fine  fellow  to  enter  the  Hotel  Dieu 
as  a  resident  student,  he  felt  a  kind  of  sorrowful  gloom 
come  over  him  at  the  thought  that  he  could  no  longer  live 
with  me.  But  he  consoled  himself  by  looking  forward 
to  getting  together  the  money  that  would  be  necessary  for 
the  expenses  of  my  final  examination,  and  he  made  me 
promise  to  come  to  see  him  on  all  my  holidays.  Bour- 
geat  was  proud  of  me.  He  loved  me  for  my  own  sake 
and  for  his  own.  If  you  look  up  my  essay  for  the 
doctorate  you  will  see  that  it  was  dedicated  to  him.  In 
the  last  year  of  my  indoor  course,  I  had  made  enough 
money  to  be  able  to  repay  all  I  owed  to  this  worthy 
Auvergnat,  by  buying  him  a  horse  and  a  water-cart. 
He  was  exceedingly  angry  at  finding  that  I  was  thus 
depriving  myself  of  my  money,  and  nevertheless  he  was 
delighted  at  seeing  his  desires  realised.  He  laughed 
and  he  scolded  me.  He  looked  at  his  water-barrel  and 
his  horse,  and  he  wiped  away  a  tear  as  he  said 
to  me : — 

1 "  It 's  a  pity  !  Oh,  what  a  fine  water-cart !    You  have 


66  THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

done  wrong  !  .  .  .  The  horse  is  as  strong  as  if  he  came 
from  Auvergne !  " 

'  I  have  never  seen  anything  more  touching  than  this 
scene.  Bourgeat  absolutely  insisted  on  buying  for  me 
that  pocket-case  of  instruments  mounted  with  silver 
that  you  have  seen  in  my  study,  and  which  is  for  me 
the  most  valued  of  my  possessions.  Although  he  was 
enraptured  with  my  first  successes  he  never  let  slip 
a  word  or  a  gesture,  that  could  be  taken  to  mean,  "  It 
is  to  me  that  this  man's  success  is  due  !  "  And  never- 
theless, but  for  him,  I  should  have  been  killed  by  my 
misery.  The  poor  man  broke  himself  down  for  my 
sake.  He  had  eaten  nothing  but  bread  seasoned  with 
garlic,  in  order  that  I  might  have  coffee  while  I  sat  up 
at  my  work.  He  fell  sick.  You  may  imagine  how  I 
passed  whole  nights  at  his  bedside.  I  pulled  him 
through  it  the  first  time,  but  two  years  after  there  was  a 
relapse,  and  notwithstanding  the  most  assiduous  care, 
notwithstanding  the  greatest  efforts  of  science,  he  had  to 
succumb.  No  king  was  ever  cared  for  as  he  was.  Yes, 
Bianchon,  to  snatch  this  life  from  death  I  tried  unheard- 
of  things.  I  wanted  to  make  him  live  long  enough  to 
allow  him  to  see  the  results  of  his  work,  to  realise  all 
his  wishes,  to  satisfy  the  one  gratitude  that  had  filled 
my  heart,  to  extinguish  a  fire  that  burns  in  me  even 
now ! 

'Bourgeat,'  continued  Desplein,  after  a  pause,  with 
evident  emotion,  '  Bourgeat,  my  second  father,  died  in 
my  arms,  leaving  me  all  he  possessed  by  a  will  which  he 


THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS  67 

had  made  at  a  public  notary's,  and  which  bore  the  date 
of  the  year  when  we  went  to  lodge  in  the  Cour  de 
Rohan.  He  had  the  faith  of  a  simple  workman.  He 
loved  the  Blessed  Virgin  as  he  would  have  loved  his 
mother.  Zealous  Catholic  as  he  was,  he  had  never  said 
a  word  to  me  about  my  own  lack  of  religion.  When  he 
was  in  danger  of  death  he  begged  me  to  spare  nothing 
to  obtain  the  help  of  the  Church  for  him.  I  had  mass 
said  for  him  every  day.  Often  in  the  night  he 
expressed  to  me  his  fears  for  his  future ;  he  was  afraid 
that  he  had  not  lived  a  holy  enough  life.  Poor  man  ! 
he  used  to  work  from  morning  to  night.  Who  is 
heaven  for  then,  if  there  is  a  heaven  ?  He  received  the 
last  sacraments  like  the  saint  that  he  was,  and  his  death 
was  worthy  of  his  life. 

'  I  was  the  only  one  who  followed  his  funeral.  When 
I  had  laid  my  one  benefactor  in  the  earth,  I  tried  to 
find  out  how  I  could  discharge  my  debt  of  gratitude  to 
him.  I  knew  that  he  had  neither  family  nor  friends, 
neither  wife  nor  children.  But  he  believed !  he  had 
religious  convictions,  and  had  I  any  right  to  dispute 
them  ?  He  had  spoken  to  me  timidly  of  masses  said 
for  the  repose  of  the  dead ;  he  did  not  seek  to  impose 
this  duty  on  me,  thinking  that  it  would  be  like  asking 
to  be  paid  for  his  services  to  me.  As  soon  as  I  could 
arrange  for  the  endowment,  I  gave  the  Saint-Sulpice  the 
sum  necessary  to  have  four  masses  said  there  each  year. 
As  the  only  thing  that  I  could  offer  to  Bourgeat  was 
the  fulfilment  of  his  pious  wishes,  I  go  there  in  his 


68  THE  ATHEIST'S  MASS 

name  on  the  day  the  mass  is  said  at  the  beginning  of 
each  quarter  of  the  year,  and  say  the  prayers  for  him 
that  he  wished  for.  I  say  them  in  the  good  faith  of  one 
who  doubts  : — "  My  God,  if  there  is  a  sphere  where 
after  their  death  you  place  those  who  have  been  perfect, 
think  of  good  Bourgeat ;  and  if  he  has  still  anything  to 
suffer,  lay  these  sufferings  on  me,  so  that  he  may  enter 
the  sooner  into  what  they  call  Paradise ! "  This,  my 
dear  friend,  is  all  that  a  man,  who  holds  my  opinions,  can 
allow  himself.  God  must  be  good-hearted,  and  He  will 
not  take  it  ill  on  my  part.  But  I  swear  to  you,  I  would 
give  my  fortune  for  the  sake  of  finding  the  faith  of 
Bourgeat  coming  into  my  brain.' 

Bianchon,  who  attended  Desplein  in  his  last  illness, 
does  not  venture  to  affirm,  even  now,  that  the  famous 
surgeon  died  an  atheist.  Will  not  those  who  believe 
take  pleasure  in  the  thought  that  perhaps  the  poor 
Auvergnat  came  to  open  for  him  the  gate  of  Heaven,  as 
he  had  already  opened  for  him  the  portals  of  that 
temple  on  earth,  on  the  fagade  of  which  one  reads  the 
words :  —  Aux  grands  hommes  la  Patrie  reconnais- 
sante  ? ] 

1  Inscription  on  the  facade  of  the  Pantheon  at  Paris. 


AN    EPISODE    OF   THE    REIGN 
OF  TERROR 

ABOUT  eight  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  January  22nd, 
1793,  an  aged  woman  was  coming  down  the  sharp 
descent  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Martin  that  ends  in  front 
of  the  church  of  Saint-Laurent.  Snow  had  fallen  so 
heavily  all  day  long  that  hardly  a  footfall  could  be  heard. 
The  streets  were  deserted.  Fears  that  the  silence 
around  naturally  enough  inspired  were  increased  by  all 
the  terror  under  which  France  was  then  groaning.  So 
the  old  lady  had  thus  far  met  with  no  one  else.  Her 
sight,  which  had  long  been  failing,  did  not  enable  her 
to  distinguish  far  off  by  the  light  of  the  street  lamps 
some  passers-by,  moving  like  scattered  shadows  in  the 
huge  thoroughfare  of  the  Faubourg.  She  went  on 
bravely  all  alone  in  the  midst  of  this  solitude,  as  if  her 
age  were  a  talisman  that  could  be  relied  on  to  preserve 
her  from  any  mishap. 

When  she  had  passed  the  Rue  des  Morts  she  thought 
she  perceived  the  heavy,  firm  tread  of  a  man  walking 
behind  her.  It  occurred  to  her  that  it  was  not  the  first 
time  she  had  heard  this  sound.  She  was  alarmed  at 
the  idea  that  she  was  being  followed,  and  she  tried  to 

69 


70    AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR 

walk  faster  in  order  to  reach  a  fairly  well-lighted  shop, 
in  the  hope  that,  in  the  light  it  gave,  she  would  be  able 
to  put  to  the  test  the  suspicions  that  had  taken  posses- 
sion of  her. 

As  soon  as  she  was  within  the  circle  of  light  projected 
horizontally  by  the  shop-front,  she  quickly  turned  her 
head  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  human  form  in  the 
foggy  darkness.  This  vague  glimpse  was  enough  for 
her.  She  tottered  for  a  moment  under  the  shock  of 
terror  that  overwhelmed  her,  for  she  no  longer  doubted 
that  she  had  been  followed  by  the  stranger  from  the 
first  step  she  had  taken  outside  her  lodging.  The  long- 
ing to  escape  from  a  spy  gave  her  strength.  Without 
being  able  to  think  of  what  she  was  doing,  she  began 
to  run — as  if  she  could  possibly  get  away  from  a  man 
who  must  necessarily  be  much  more  agile  than 
herself. 

After  running  for  a  few  minutes  she  reached  a  con- 
fectioner's shop,  entered  it,  and  fell,  rather  than  sat, 
down  upon  a  chair  that  stood  in  front  of  the  counter. 
Even  while  she  was  raising  the  creaking  latch,  a  young 
woman,  who  was  busy  with  some  embroidery,  raised 
her  eyes,  and  through  the  small  panes  of  the  half- 
window  in  the  shop  door  recognised  the  old-fashioned 
violet  silk  mantle,  in  which  the  old  lady  was  wrapped. 
She  hurriedly  opened  a  drawer  as  if  looking  for  some- 
thing she  was  to  hand  over  to  her. 

It  was  not  only  by  her  manner  and  the  look  on  her 
face  that  the  young  woman  showed  she  was  anxious  to 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR     71 

get  rid  of  the  stranger  without  delay,  as  if  her  visitor 
were  one  of  those  there  was  no  pleasure  in  seeing  ;  but, 
besides  this,  she  allowed  an  expression  of  impatience 
to  escape  her  on  finding  that  the  drawer  was  empty. 
Then,  without  looking  at  the  lady,  she  turned  suddenly 
from  the  counter,  went  towards  the  back  shop,  and 
called  her  husband  who  at  once  made  his  appearance. 

'  Wherever  have  you  put  away  .  .  .  ? '  she  asked  of 
him,  with  an  air  of  mystery  without  finishing  her  ques- 
tion, but  calling  his  attention  to  the  old  lady  with  a 
glance  of  her  eyes. 

Although  the  confectioner  could  see  nothing  but  the 
immense  black  silk  bonnet,  trimmed  with  bows  of 
violet  ribbon,  that  formed  the  strange  visitor's  headgear, 
he  left  the  shop  again,  after  having  cast  at  his  wife  a  look 
that  seemed  to  say,  '  Do  you  think  I  would  leave  that 
in  your  counter  .  .  .  ? ' 

Surprised  at  the  motionless  silence  of  the  old  lady 
the  shopwoman  turned  and  approached  her,  and  as  she 
looked  at  her  she  felt  herself  inspired  with  an  impulse 
of  compassion,  perhaps  not  unmingled  with  curiosity. 
Although  the  woman's  complexion  showed  an  habitual 
pallor,  like  that  of  one  who  makes  a  practice  of  secret 
austerities,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  a  recent  emotion  had 
brought  an  unusual  paleness  to  her  face.  Her  head- 
dress was  so  arranged  as  to  conceal  her  hair.  No 
doubt  it  was  white  with  age,  for  there  were  no  marks 
on  the  upper  part  of  her  dress  to  show  that  she  used 
hair  powder.  The  complete  absence  of  ornament  lent 


72     AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR 

to  her  person  an  air  of  religious  severity.  Her  features 
had  a  grave,  stately  look.  In  these  old  times  the 
manners  and  habits  of  people  of  quality  were  so 
different  from  those  of  other  classes  of  society,  that  it 
was  easy  to  distinguish  one  of  noble  birth.  So  the 
young  woman  felt  convinced  that  the  stranger  was  a 
ci-devant,  an  ex-aristocrat,  and  that  she  had  belonged  to 
the  court. 

'  Madame  ..."  she  said  to  her  with  involuntary 
respect,  forgetting  that  such  a  title  was  now  forbidden. 

The  old  lady  did  not  reply.  She  kept  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  window  of  the  shop,  as  if  she  could  distinguish 
some  fearful  object  in  that  direction. 

'What  is  the  matter,  citizeness?'  asked  the  shop- 
keeper, who  had  returned  almost  immediately. 

And  the  citizen-confectioner  roused  the  lady  from 
her  reverie  by  offering  her  a  little  cardboard  box 
wrapped  in  blue  paper. 

1  Nothing,  nothing,  my  friends,'  she  answered  in  a 
sweet  voice.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  confectioner's 
face  as  if  to  give  him  a  look  of  thanks,  but  seeing  the 
red  cap  on  his  head,  she  uttered  a  cry : — '  Ah,  you 
have  betrayed  me  ! ' 

The  young  woman  and  her  husband  replied  by  a 
gesture  of  horror  at  the  thought,  which  made  the 
stranger  blush,  perhaps  at  having  suspected  them, 
perhaps  with  pleasure. 

'Pardon  me,'  she  said,  with  childlike  gentleness. 
Then,  taking  a  louis  d'or  from  her  pocket,  she  offered  it 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR     73 

to  the  confectioner : — '  Here  is  the  price  we  agreed  on,' 
she  added. 

There  is  a  poverty  that  the  poor  readily  recognise. 
The  confectioner  and  his  wife  looked  at  one  another, 
silently  turning  each  other's  attention  to  the  old  lady, 
while  both  formed  one  common  thought.  This  louis 
d  'or  must  be  her  last.  The  lady's  hands  trembled  as 
she  offered  the  piece  of  money,  she  looked  at  it  with  a 
sadness  that  had  no  avarice  in  it,  but  she  seemed  to 
realise  the  full  extent  of  the  sacrifice  she  made. 
Starvation  and  misery  were  as  plainly  marked  on  her 
face  as  the  lines  that  told  of  fear  and  of  habits  of 
asceticism.  In  her  dress  there  were  traces  of  old 
magnificence.  It  was  of  worn-out  silk.  Her  mantle 
was  neat  though  threadbare,  with  some  carefully 
mended  lace  upon  it.  In  a  word  it  was  a  case  of 
wealth  the  worse  for  wear.  The  people  of  the  shop, 
hesitating  between  sympathy  and  self-interest,  began  by 
trying  to  satisfy  their  consciences  with  words  : — 

1  But,  citizeness,  you  seem  to  be  very  weak — 

1  Would  Madame  like  to  take  something  ? '  said  the 
woman,  cutting  her  husband  short. 

'  We  have  some  very  good  soup,'  added  the  confec- 
tioner. 

'  It  is  so  cold  to-night.  Perhaps  Madame  has  had  a 
chill  while  walking  ?  But  you  can  rest  here  and  warm 
yourself  for  a  while.' 

'  We  are  not  as  black  as  the  devil ! '  exclaimed  the 
confectioner. 


74     AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR 

Won  by  the  tone  of  kindness  that  found  expression 
in  the  words  of  the  charitable  shopkeepers,  the  lady 
let  them  know  she  had  been  followed  by  a  stranger, 
and  that  she  was  afraid  to  go  back  alone  to  her 
lodgings. 

'  Is  that  all  ? '  replied  the  man  in  the  red  cap,  '  wait 
a  little,  citizeness.' 

He  gave  the  louis  <?or  to  his  wife.  .  .  .  Then  moved 
by  that  sort  of  gratitude  that  finds  its  way  into  the  heart 
of  a  dealer  when  he  has  got  an  exorbitant  price  for  some 
merchandise  of  trifling  value,  he  went  and  put  on  his 
national  Guard's  uniform,  took  his  hat,  belted  on  his 
sword,  and  reappeared  as  an  armed  man.  But  his  wife 
had  had  time  to  reflect.  In  her  heart,  as  in  so  many 
more,  reflection  closed  the  open  hand  of  benevolence. 
Anxious  and  fearful  of  seeing  her  husband  involved  in 
some  bad  business,  the  confectioner's  wife  tried  to  pull 
him  by  the  skirt  of  his  coat  and  stop  him.  But  obeying 
his  own  charitable  feelings  the  good  fellow  offered  at 
once  to  escort  the  old  lady. 

'It  seems  that  the  man  the  citizeness  is  afraid  of  is 
still  prowling  about  in  front  of  our  shop,'  said  the  young 
woman  excitedly. 

'  I  am  afraid  he  is,'  put  in  the  lady  naively. 

'What  if  he  were  a  spy?  ...  if  there  were  some 
plot  ?  .  .  .  Don  't  go,  and  take  back  that  box  from 
her.  .  .  .' 

These  words,  whispered  in  the  ear  of  the  confectioner 
by  his  wife,  froze  the  sudden  courage  that  had  inspired  him. 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR     75 

'Well,  I  '11  just  say  a  few  words  to  him,  and  rid  you 
of  him  soon  enough,'  exclaimed  the  shopkeeper,  as  he 
opened  the  door  and  slipped  hurriedly  out. 

The  old  lady,  passive  as  a  child  and  almost  stupefied 
by  her  fear,  sat  down  again  on  the  chair.  The  good 
shopkeeper  was  soon  back.  His  face,  naturally  ruddy- 
enough  and  further  reddened  by  his  oven  fire,  had 
suddenly  become  pallid.  He  was  a  prey  to  such  terror 
that  his  legs  shook  and  his  eyes  looked  like  those  of  a 
drunken  man. 

'  Do  you  want  to  get  our  heads  cut  off,  you  wretch  of 
an  aristocrat  ? '  he  cried  out  in  a  fury.  '  Come,  show  us 
your  heels,  and  don't  let  us  see  you  again,  and  don't 
reckon  on  my  supplying  you  with  materials  for  your 
plots ! ' 

As  he  ended,  the  confectioner  made  an  attempt  to 
take  back  from  the  old  lady  the  little  box  which  she 
had  put  into  one  of  her  pockets.  But  hardly  had  his 
bold  hands  touched  her  dress,  than  the  stranger — pre- 
ferring to  risk  herself  amid  the  perils  of  the  street  with- 
out any  other  protector  but  God,  rather  than  to  lose  what 
she  had  just  bought,  regained  all  the  agility  of  youth. 
She  rushed  to  the  door,  opened  it  briskly,  and  vanished 
from  the  sight  of  wife  and  husband  as  they  stood  trem- 
bling and  astonished. 

As  soon  as  the  stranger  was  outside  she  started  off  at 
a  rapid  walk.  But  her  strength  soon  began  to  desert 
her,  and  she  heard  the  spy,  who  had  so  pitilessly  followed 
her,  making  the  snow  crackle  as  he  crushed  it  with  his 

G 


76     AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR 

heavy  tread.  She  had  to  stop.  He  stopped.  She  did 
not  dare  to  address  him,  or  even  to  look  at  him — it  might 
be  on  account  of  the  fear  that  had  seized  upon  her,  or 
because  she  could  not  think  what  to  say.  Then  she 
went  on  again  walking  slowly. 

The  man  also  slackened  his  pace  so  as  to  remain 
always  just  at  the  distance  that  enabled  him  to  keep  her 
in  sight.  He  seemed  to  be  the  very  shadow  of  the  old 
woman.  Nine  o'clock  struck  as  the  silent  pair  once 
more  passed  by  the  church  of  Saint-Laurent. 

It  is  a  part  of  the  nature  of  all  minds,  even  of  the 
weakest,  to  find  a  feeling  of  calm  succeed  to  any  violent 
agitation,  for  if  our  feelings  are  infinite,  our  organism 
has  its  limits.  So  the  stranger,  finding  that  her  supposed 
persecutor  did  her  no  harm,  was  inclined  to  see  in  him 
some  unknown  friend,  who  was  anxious  to  protect  her. 
She  summed  up  in  her  mind  all  the  circumstances  that 
had  attended  the  appearance  of  the  stranger,  as  if  seek- 
ing for  some  plausible  motives  for  this  consoling  opinion, 
and  was  then  satisfied  to  recognise  on  his  part  a  friendly 
rather  than  an  evil  purpose.  Forgetful  of  the  alarm, 
which  this  man  had  so  short  a  time  ago  caused  the  con- 
fectioner, she  now  went  on  with  a  firm  step  into  the 
upper  part  of  the  Faubourg  Saint- Martin. 

After  walking  for  half  an  hour  she  came  to  a  house 
situated  near  the  point  where  the  street,  which  leads  to 
the  Pantin  barrier,  branches  off  from  the  main  line  of  the 
Faubourg.  Even  at  the  present  day  the  neighbourhood 
is  still  one  of  the  loneliest  in  all  Paris.  A  north-east 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR     77 

wind  blowing  over  the  Buttes  Chaumont  and  Belleville 
whistled  between  the  houses,  or  rather  the  cottages, 
scattered  about  this  almost  uninhabited  valley,  in  which 
the  enclosures  were  formed  of  fences  built  up  of  earth 
and  old  bones.  The  desolate  place  seemed  to  be  the 
natural  refuge  of  misery  and  despair. 

The  man,  all  eagerness  in  the  pursuit  of  this  poor 
creature,  who  was  so  bold  as  to  traverse  these  silent 
streets  in  the  night,  seemed  struck  by  the  spectacle 
that  presented  itself  to  his  gaze.  He  stood  still,  full  of 
thought,  in  a  hesitating  attitude,  in  the  feeble  light  of  a 
street  lamp,  the  struggling  rays  of  which  could  hardly 
penetrate  the  fog.  Fear  seemed  to  sharpen  the  sight  of 
the  old  lady,  who  thought  she  saw  something  of  evil 
omen  in  the  looks  of  the  stranger.  She  felt  her  terror 
reawakening,  and  took  advantage  of  the  seeming  hesi- 
tation that  had  brought  the  man  to  a  standstill  to  slip 
through  a  shadow  to  the  door  of  a  solitary  house,  she 
pushed  back  a  spring  latch,  and  disappeared  in  an  in- 
stant like  a  ghost  upon  the  stage. 

The  unknown  man,  without  moving  from  where  he 
stood,  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  house,  the  appearance 
of  which  was  fairly  typical  of  that  of  the  wretched  dwell- 
ing places  of  this  suburb  of  Paris.  The  tumble-down 
hovel  was  built  of  bricks  covered  with  a  coat  of  yellow 
plaster,  so  full  of  cracks  that  one  feared  to  see  the 
whole  fall  down  in  a  heap  of  ruins  before  the  least 
effort  of  the  wind.  There  were  three  windows  to  each 
floor,  and  their  frames,  rotten  with  damp  and  warped 


78     AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR 

by  the  action  of  the  sun,  suggested  that  the  cold  must 
penetrate  freely  into  the  rooms.  The  lonely  house 
looked  like  some  old  tower  that  time  has  forgotten  to  de- 
stroy. A  feeble  gleam  lit  up  the  warped  and  crooked 
window-sashes  of  the  garret  window,  that  showed  up  the 
roof  of  this  poor  edifice,  while  all  the  rest  of  the  house 
was  in  complete  darkness. 

Not  without  difficulty  the  old  woman  climbed  the 
rough  and  clumsy  stair,  in  ascending  which  one  had  to 
lean  on  a  rope  that  took  the  place  of  a  handrail.  She 
gave  a  low  knock  at  the  door  of  the  garret  room,  and 
hurriedly  took  her  seat  on  a  chair,  which  an  old  man 
offered  to  her. 

'  Hide  yourself !  hide  yourself ! '  she  said  to  him, 
'  though  we  so  seldom  go  out,  our  doings  are  known,  our 
steps  are  spied  upon.  .  .  .  ' 

'Is  there  anything  new  then?'  asked  another  old 
woman  who  was  seated  near  the  fire. 

'  That  man,  who  has  been  prowling  round  the  house 
since  yesterday,  followed  me  this  evening.  .  .  .' 

At  these  words  the  three  inmates  of  the  hovel  looked 
at  each  other,  while  they  showed  on  their  faces  signs  of 
serious  alarm.  Of  the  three  the  old  man  was  the  least 
agitated,  perhaps  because  he  was  the  most  in  danger. 
Under  the  weight  of  a  great  misfortune,  or  under  the 
pressure  of  persecution,  a  brave  man  begins,  so  to  say, 
by  making  the  complete  sacrifice  of  himself.  He 
counts  each  day  as  one  more  victory  won  over  fate. 
The  looks  of  the  two  women  fixed  upon  this  old  man 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR     79 

made  it  easy  to  see  that  he  was  the  one  object  of  their 
keen  anxiety. 

'Why  lose  our  trust  in  God,  my  sisters?'  he  said 
in  a  voice  low,  but  full  of  fervour  ;  '  we  sang  His  praises 
in  the  midst  of  the  cries  of  the  murderers  and  of  the 
dying  at  the  convent  of  the  Carmelites.  If  He  willed 
that  I  should  be  saved  from  that  butchery,  it  was  no 
doubt  to  preserve  me  for  some  destiny  that  I  must 
accept  without  a  murmur.  God  guards  His  own,  and 
He  can  dispose  of  them  according  to  His  will.  It  is  of 
yourselves,  and  not  of  me,  that  we  must  think.' 

'  No,'  said  one  of  the  old  women,  '  what  are  our  lives 
compared  to  that  of  a  priest  ? ' 

'  Once  I  saw  myself  outside  of  the  Abbey  of  Chelles, 
I  considered  myself  as  a  dead  woman,'  said  one  of  the 
two  nuns — the  one  who  had  remained  in  the  house. 

'  Here  are  the  altar  breads,'  said  the  other,  who  had 
just  come  in,  offering  the  little  box  to  the  priest.  '  But 
.  .  . '  she  cried  out,  '  I  hear  footsteps  on  the  stairs  ! ' 

All  three  listened.  .  .  .  The  sound  ceased. 

'Do  not  be  alarmed,'  said  the  priest,  'if  some  one 
tries  to  get  to  see  you.  A  person  on  whose  good  faith 
we  can  depend  must  by  this  time  have  taken  all 
necessary  steps  to  cross  the  frontier,  in  order  to  come 
here  for  the  letters  I  have  written  to  the  Due  de 
Langeais  and  the  Marquis  de  Beause"ant,  asking  them 
to  see  what  can  be  done  to  take  you  away  from  this 
wretched  country,  and  the  suffering  and  death  that 
await  you  here.' 


8o     AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR 

'  You  are  not  going  with  us  then  ? '  exclaimed  the  two 
nuns  in  gentle  protest,  and  with  a  look  of  something 
like  despair. 

'  My  place  is  where  there  are  still  victims,'  was  the 
priest's  simple  reply. 

They  were  silent  and  gazed  at  their  protector  with 
reverent  admiration. 

'Sister  Martha,'  he  said,  addressing  the  nun  who  had 
gone  to  get  the  altar  breads,  '  this  envoy  of  ours  should 
answer  "  Fiat  voluntas  "  to  the  password  "  Hosanna" ' 

'  There  is  some  one  on  the  stair ! '  exclaimed  the 
other  nun  ;  and  she  opened  a  hiding-place  constructed 
in  the  roof. 

This  time,  in  the  deep  silence,  it  was  easy  to  catch 
the  sound  of  the  footsteps  of  some  man,  re-echoing  on 
the  stairs  that  were  rough  with  lumps  of  hardened  mud. 
The  priest  with  some  difficulty  huddled  himself  into  a 
kind  of  cupboard,  and  the  nun  threw  some  old  clothes 
over  him. 

'You  can  shut  the  door,'  he  said  in  a  smothered 
voice. 

The  priest  was  hardly  hidden  away,  when  three 
knocks  at  the  door  made  both  the  good  women  start. 
They  were  exchanging  looks  of  inquiry  without  daring 
to  utter  a  word.  Both  seemed  to  be  about  sixty  years 
of  age.  Separated  from  the  world  for  some  forty  years, 
they  were  like  plants,  that  are  so  used  to  the  air  of 
a  hothouse,  that  they  die  if  one  takes  them  out. 
Accustomed  as  they  were  to  the  life  of  the  convent  they 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR     81 

had  no  idea  of  anything  else.  One  morning  their 
cloister  had  been  broken  open,  and  they  had  shuddered 
at  finding  themselves  free.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  the 
state  of  nervous  weakness  the  events  of  the  Revolution 
had  produced  in  their  innocent  minds.  Unable  to 
reconcile  the  mental  habits  of  the  cloister  with  the 
difficulties  of  life,  and  not  fully  understanding  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  they  were  placed,  they  were  like 
children  of  whom  every  care  had  been  taken  till  now, 
and  who,  suddenly  deprived  of  their  mother's  care,  pray 
instead  of  weeping.  So  face  to  face  with  the  danger 
which  they  now  saw  before  them,  they  remained  silent 
and  passive,  knowing  of  no  other  defence  but  Christian 
resignation. 

The  man  who  had  asked  for  admittance  interpreted 
this  silence  in  his  own  way.  He  opened  the  door  and 
suddenly  appeared  in  the  room.  The  two  nuns 
shuddered  as  they  recognised  the  man,  who  for  some 
time  had  been  prowling  around  their  house,  and  making 
inquiries  about  them.  They  remained  motionless, 
looking  at  him  with  the  anxious  curiosity  of  untaught 
children  who  stare  in  silence  at  a  stranger. 

The  man  was  tall  in  stature  and  heavily  built.  But 
there  was  nothing  in  his  attitude,  his  general  appearance, 
or  the  expression  of  his  face,  to  suggest  that  he  was 
a  bad  character.  Like  the  nuns  he  kept  quite  still, 
and  slowly  cast  his  eyes  round  the  room  he  had 
entered. 

Two  straw  mats  unrolled  on  the  floor  served  for  beds 


82     AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR 

for  the  nuns.  There  was  a  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and  there  stood  on  it  a  brass  candlestick,  some 
plates,  three  knives  and  a  round  loaf  of  bread.  There 
was  a  very  small  fire  in  the  grate.  A  few  pieces  of 
wood  heaped  up  in  a  corner  were  a  further  sign  of  the 
poverty  of  these  two  recluses.  One  could  see  that  the 
roof  was  in  a  bad  state,  for  the  walls,  covered  with  a 
coat  of  very  old  paint,  were  stained  with  brown  streaks 
that  showed  where  the  rain  had  leaked  through.  A 
reliquary,  rescued  no  doubt  from  the  sack  of  the 
Abbey  of  Chelles,  served  as  an  ornament  to  the  mantel- 
piece. Three  chairs,  two  boxes,  and  a  shabby  chest 
of  drawers  completed  the  furniture  of  the  room.  A 
door  near  the  fireplace  suggested  that  there  was  a 
second  room  beyond. 

The  individual,  who  had  in  such  an  alarming  way 
introduced  himself  to  this  poor  household,  had  soon 
taken  mental  note  of  all  the  contents  of  the  little  room. 
A  feeling  of  pity  could  be  traced  upon  his  countenance, 
and  he  cast  a  kindly  look  upon  the  two  women,  and 
appeared  to  be  at  least  as  much  embarrassed  as  they 
were.  The  strange  silence  that  all  three  had  kept  so 
far  did  not  long  continue,  for  at  last  the  stranger 
realised  the  timidity  and  inexperience  of  the  two  poor 
creatures,  and  said  to  them  in  a  voice  that  he  tried  to 
make  as  gentle  as  possible  : — 

'  I  do  not  come  here  as  an  enemy,  citizenesses  .  .  . ' 
He  stopped,  as  if  recovering  himself,  and  went 
on: — 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR     83 

'Sisters,  if  any  misfortune  comes  your  way,  believe 
me  I  have  no  part  in  it.  ...  I  have  a  favour  to  ask  of 
you.' 

They  still  kept  silence. 

'  If  I  am  troubling  you,  if  ...  if  I  am  causing  you 
pain,  say  so  freely  .  .  .  and  I  will  go  away;  but  be 
assured  that  I  am  entirely  devoted  to  you ;  that  if 
there  is  any  kindness  I  can  do  to  you,  you  can  claim 
it  from  me  without  fear ;  and  that  I  am  perhaps  the 
only  one  who  is  above  the  law,  now  that  there  is  no 
longer  a  king.  .  .  . ' 

There  was  such  an  air  of  truth  in  his  words,  that 
Sister  Agatha,  she  of  the  two  nuns  who  belonged  to  the 
noble  family  of  Langeais,  and  whose  manners  seemed 
to  indicate  that  in  old  times  she  had  known  the  splen- 
dours of  festive  society  and  had  breathed  the  air  of  the 
court — pointed  with  an  alert  movement  to  one  of  the 
chairs  as  if  asking  the  visitor  to  be  seated.  The 
stranger  showed  something  of  pleasure  mingled  with 
sadness,  as  he  understood  this  gesture,  but  before 
taking  the  chair  he  waited  till  both  the  worthy  ladies 
were  seated. 

'  You  have  given  a  refuge  here,'  he  continued,  'to  a 
venerable  priest,  one  of  those  who  refused  the  oath,  and 
who  had  a  miraculous  escape  from  the  massacre  at  the 
Carmelites.  .  .  .'  'Jfosannal'  .  .  ,  said  Sister  Agatha, 
interrupting  the  stranger,  and  looking  at  him  with 
anxious  curiosity. 

'  I  don't  think  that  is  his  name,'  he  replied. 


84     AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR 

'  But,  sir,  we  have  no  priest  here,'  said  Sister  Martha, 
eagerly. 

'  If  that  is  so,  you  ought  to  be  more  careful  and 
prudent,'  answered  the  stranger  in  a  gentle  tone,  as  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  the  table  and  took  a  breviary 
from  it,  '  I  don't  suppose  you  know  Latin,  and  .  .  .' 

He  said  no  more,  for  the  extraordinary  emotion 
depicted  on  the  faces  of  the  two  poor  nuns  made  him 
fear  that  he  had  gone  too  far.  They  were  trembling, 
and  their  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

'  Don't  be  alarmed,'  he  said  in  a  voice  that  seemed 
all  sincerity,  '  I  know  the  name  of  your  guest,  and  your 
own  names  too,  and  for  the  last  three  days  I  have  been 
aware  of  your  distress  and  of  your  devoted  care  for  the 
venerable  Abbe"  de  .  .  .' 

'  Hush  ! '  said  Sister  Agatha  in  her  simplicity,  putting 
a  finger  to  her  lips. 

'You  see,  Sister,  that  if  I  had  had  in  my  mind  the 
horrible  idea  of  betraying  you,  I  could  have  done  so 
already,  again  and  again.  .  .  .' 

Hearing  these  words,  the  priest  extricated  himself 
from  his  prison,  and  came  out  again  into  the  room. 

'  I  could  not  possibly  believe,  sir,'  he  said  to  the 
stranger,  '  that  you  were  one  of  our  persecutors,  and  I 
trust  myself  to  you.  What  do  you  want  of  me  ? ' 

The  holy  confidence  of  the  priest,  the  nobility  of 
mind  that  showed  itself  in  his  every  look,  would  have 
disarmed  even  assassins.  The  mysterious  man,  whose 
coming  had  caused  such  excitement  in  this  scene  of  re- 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR     85 

signed  misery,  gazed  for  a  moment  at  the  group  formed 
by  the  three  others ;  then,  taking  a  tone  in  which  there 
was  no  longer  any  hesitation,  he  addressed  the  priest  in 
these  words  : — 

'  Father,  I  came  to  ask  you  to  say  a  mass  for  the  dead, 
for  the  repose  of  the  soul  ...  of  one  ...  of  a  sacred 
personage,  whose  body  will  never  be  laid  to  rest  in 
consecrated  ground.  .  .  .' 

The  priest  gave  an  involuntary  shudder.  The  nuns, 
who  did  not  yet  understand  to  whom  it  was  the  stranger 
alluded,  sat  in  an  attitude  of  curiosity,  their  heads 
stretched  forwards,  their  faces  turned  towards  the  two 
who  were  speaking  together.  The  priest  looked  closely 
at  the  stranger,  on  whose  face  there  was  an  un- 
mistakable expression  of  anxiety,  and  also  of  earnest 
entreaty. 

'  Well,'  replied  the  priest,  '  come  back  this  evening  at 
midnight,  and  I  shall  be  ready  to  celebrate  the  only 
rites  for  the  dead  that  we  may  be  able  to  offer  up  in 
expiation  for  the  crime  of  which  you  speak.  .  .  .' 

The  stranger  started,  but  it  seemed  that  some  deep 
and  soothing  satisfaction  was  triumphing  over  his  secret 
sorrow.  After  having  respectfully  saluted  the  priest  and 
the  two  holy  women,  he  took  his  departure  showing  a 
kind  of  silent  gratitude,  which  was  understood  by  these 
three  generous  souls. 

About  two  hours  after  this  scene  the  stranger  re- 
turned, knocked  softly  at  the  door  of  the  garret,  and  was 
admitted  by  Mademoiselle  de  Beauseant,  who  led  him 


86     AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR 

into  the  inner  room  of  this  poor  place  of  refuge,  where 
everything  had  been  made  ready  for  the  ceremony. 

Between  two  chimney  shafts,  that  passed  up  through 
the  room,  the  nuns  had  placed  the  old  chest  of  drawers, 
the  antiquated  outlines  of  which  were  hidden  by  a 
magnificent  altar  frontal  of  green  watered  silk.  A  large 
crucifix  of  ivory  and  ebony  hung  on  the  yellow  washed 
wall  contrasting  so  strongly  with  the  surrounding  bare- 
ness, that  the  eye  could  not  fail  to  be  drawn  to  it. 
Four  slender  little  tapers,  which  the  sisters  had  suc- 
ceeded in  fixing  on  this  improvised  altar,  by  attaching 
them  to  it  with  sealing  wax,  threw  out  a  dim  light,  that 
was  hardly  reflected  by  the  wall.  This  feeble  illumina- 
tion barely  gave  light  to  the  rest  of  the  room ;  but,  as  it 
thus  shone  only  on  the  sacred  objects,  it  seemed  like 
a  light  sent  down  from  heaven  on  this  unadorned  altar. 
The  floor  was  damp.  The  roof,  which  slanted  down 
sharply  on  two  sides,  as  is  usual  in  garret  rooms,  had 
some  cracks  in  it  through  which  came  the  night  wind — 
icy  cold. 

Nothing  could  be  more  devoid  of  all  pomp,  and 
nevertheless  there  was  perhaps  never  anything  more 
solemn  than  this  mournful  ceremony.  A  profound 
silence,  in  which  one  could  have  heard  the  least  sound 
uttered  on  the  highway  outside,  lent  a  kind  of  sombre 
majesty  to  the  midnight  scene.  Finally  the  greatness 
of  the  action  itself  contrasted  so  strongly  with  the 
poverty  of  its  surroundings  that  the  result  was  a  feeling 
of  religious  awe. 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR     87 

On  each  side  of  the  altar  the  two  aged  nuns  knelt  on 
the  tiled  floor  without  taking  any  notice  of  its  deadly 
dampness,  and  united  their  prayers  with  those  of  the 
priest,  who,  robed  in  his  sacerdotal  vestments,  placed  on 
the  altar  a  chalice  of  gold  adorned  with  precious  stones, 
a  consecrated  vessel  that  had  been  saved  no  doubt  from 
the  pillage  of  the  Abbey  of  Chelles.  Beside  this  chalice, 
a  token  of  royal  munificence,  the  wine  and  water 
destined  for  the  Holy  Sacrifice  stood  ready  in  two 
glasses,  such  as  one  would  hardly  have  found  in  the 
poorest  inn.  For  want  of  a  missal  the  priest  had  placed 
a  small  prayer-book  on  the  corner  of  the  altar.  An 
ordinary  plate  had  been  prepared  for  the  washing  of  the 
hands,  in  this  case  hands  all  innocent  and  free  from 
blood.  There  was  the  contrast  of  littleness  with 
immensity;  of  poverty  with  noble  sublimity;  of  what 
was  meant  for  profane  uses  with  what  was  consecrated 
to  God. 

The  stranger  knelt  devoutly  between  the  two  nuns. 
But  suddenly,  as  he  noticed  that,  having  no  other 
means  of  marking  that  this  was  a  mass  offered  for  the 
dead,  the  priest  had  placed  a  knot  of  crape  on  the 
crucifix  and  on  the  base  of  the  chalice,  thus  putting 
holy  things  in  mourning,  the  stranger's  mind  was  so 
mastered  by  some  recollection  that  drops  of  sweat  stood 
out  upon  his  broad  forehead.  The  four  silent  actors  in 
the  scene  looked  at  each  other  mysteriously.  Then 
their  souls,  acting  and  reacting  on  each  other,  inspired 
with  one  common  thought,  united  them  in  devout  sym- 


88    AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR 

pathy.  It  seemed  as  if  their  minds  had  evoked  the 
presence  of  the  martyr  whose  remains  the  quicklime 
had  burned  away,  and  that  his  shade  was  present  with 
them  in  all  its  kingly  majesty.  They  were  celebrating 
a  requiem  without  the  presence  of  the  body  of  the 
departed.  Under  the  disjointed  laths  and  tiles  of  the 
roof  four  Christians  were  about  to  intercede  with  God 
for  a  King  of  France,  and  perform  his  obsequies  though 
there  was  no  coffin  before  the  altar.  There  was  the 
purest  of  devoted  love,  an  act  of  wondrous  loyalty  per- 
formed without  a  touch  of  self-consciousness.  No  doubt, 
in  the  eyes  of  God,  it  was  like  the  gift  of  the  glass  of 
water  that  ranks  with  the  highest  of  virtues.  All  the 
monarchy  was  there,  finding  voice  in  the  prayers  of  a 
priest  and  two  poor  women ;  but  perhaps  the  Revolu- 
tion too  was  represented  by  that  man,  whose  face 
showed  too  much  remorse  to  leave  any  doubt  that  he 
was  fulfilling  a  duty  inspired  by  deep  repentance. 

Before  he  pronounced  the  Latin  words,  Introibo  ad 
altare  Dei,  the  priest,  as  if  by  an  inspiration  from  on 
high,  turned  to  the  three  who  were  with  him  as  the 
representatives  of  Christian  France,  and  said  to  them, 
as  though  to  banish  from  their  sight  all  the  misery  of 
the  garret  room  : — 

'  We  are  about  to  enter  into  the  sanctuary  of  God ! ' 

At  these  words,  uttered  with  deep  devotion,  a  holy 

awe  took  possession  of  the  stranger  and  the  two  nuns. 

Under  the  vast  arches  of  St.  Peter's  at  Rome  these 

Christians  could  not  have  realised  the  majesty  of  God's 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR     89 

Presence  more  plainly  than  in  that  refuge  of  misery  ;  so 
true  is  it  that  between  Him  and  man  all  outward  things 
seem  useless,  and  His  greatness  comes  from  Himself 
alone.  The  stranger  showed  a  really  fervent  devotion. 
So  the  same  feelings  united  the  prayers  of  these  four 
servants  of  God  and  the  king.  The  sacred  words 
sounded  like  a  heavenly  music  in  the  midst  of  the 
silence.  There  was  a  moment  when  the  unknown  man 
could  not  restrain  his  tears.  It  was  at  the  Pater  Nosier, 
when  the  priest  added  this  prayer  in  Latin  which  no 
doubt  the  stranger  understood : — 

'  Et  rtmitte  scelus  regiridis  sicut  Ludovicus  eis  rcmisit 
semetipse.  (And  forgive  their  crime  to  the  regicides,  as 
Louis  himself  forgave  them.) ' 

The  nuns  saw  two  large  tear-drops  making  lines  of 
moisture  down  the  strong  face  of  the  unknown,  and 
falling  to  the  floor. 

The  Office  for  the  Dead  was  recited.  The  Domine 
salvum  fac  regem,  chanted  in  a  low  voice,  touched  the 
hearts  of  these  faithful  Royalists,  who  thought  how  the 
child  king,  for  whom  at  that  moment  they  were  implor- 
ing the  help  of  the  Most  High,  was  a  captive  in  the 
hands  of  his  enemies.  The  stranger  shuddered  as  he 
remembered  that  perhaps  a  fresh  crime  might  be  com- 
mitted, in  which  he  would  no  doubt  be  forced  to  have 
a  share. 

When  the  Office  for  the  Dead  was  ended,  the  priest 
made  a  sign  to  the  two  nuns  and  they  withdrew.  As 
soon  as  he  found  himself  alone  with  the  stranger,  he 


9o     AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR 

went  towards  him  with  a  sad  and  gentle  air,  and  said  to 
him  in  a  fatherly  voice  : — 

'  My  son,  if  you  have  imbrued  your  hands  in  the 
blood  of  the  martyr  king,  confide  in  me.  There  is 
no  fault  that  is  not  blotted  out  in  God's  eyes  by  a 
repentance  as  sincere  and  as  touching  as  yours  appears 
to  be.' 

At  the  first  words  uttered  by  the  priest  the  stranger 
gave  way  to  an  involuntary  movement  of  alarm.  But 
he  recovered  his  self-control,  and  looked  calmly  at  the 
astonished  priest. 

'  Father,'  he  said  to  him,  in  a  voice  that  showed 
evident  signs  of  emotion,  '  no  one  is  more  innocent 
than  I  am  of  the  blood  that  has  been  shed.  .  .  .' 

'It  is  my  duty  to  take  your  word  for  it,'  said  the 
priest. 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  once  more  he 
looked  closely  at  his  penitent.  Then,  persisting  in 
taking  him  for  one  of  those  timid  members  of  the 
National  Convention  who  abandoned  to  the  executioner 
a  sacred  and  inviolable  head  in  order  to  save  their  own, 
he  spoke  once  more  in  a  grave  tone : — 

'Consider,  my  son,  that  in  order  to  be  guiltless  of 
this  great  crime  it  does  not  suffice  merely  to  have  had 
no  direct  co-operation  in  it.  Those  who,  although  they 
could  have  defended  the  king,  left  their  swords  in  their 
scabbards,  will  have  a  very  heavy  account  to  render  to 
the  King  of  Heaven.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes ! '  added  the  old 
priest,  shaking  his  head  expressively  from  side  to  side. 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR     91 

'  Yes,  very  heavy !  ...  for  in  standing  idle,  they  have 
made  themselves  the  involuntary  accomplices  of  this 
awful  misdeed.' 

'Do  you  think,'  asked  the  man,  as  if  struck  with 
horror,  '  that  even  an  indirect  participation  in  it  will  be 
punished?  .  .  .  Are  we  then  to  take  it  that,  say,  a 
soldier  who  was  ordered  to  keep  the  ground  at  the 
scaffold  is  guilty  ?  .  .  .' 

The  priest  hesitated.  Pleased  at  the  dilemma  in 
which  he  had  put  this  Puritan  of  Royalism,  by  placing 
him  between  the  doctrine  of  passive  obedience,  which, 
according  to  the  partisans  of  the  monarchy,  must  be 
the  essence  of  the  military  code,  and  the  equally  im- 
portant doctrine  which  was  the  sanction  of  the  respect 
due  to  the  person  of  the  king,  the  stranger  eagerly 
accepted  the  priest's  hesitation  as  indicating  a  favour- 
able solution  of  the  doubts  that  seemed  to  harrass  him. 
Then,  in  order  not  to  give  the  venerable  theologian 
further  time  for  reflection,  he  said  to  him  : — 

'I  would  be  ashamed  to  offer  you  any  honorarium 
for  the  funeral  service  you  have  just  celebrated  for  the 
repose  of  the  soul  of  the  king,  and  to  satisfy  my  own 
conscience.  One  can  only  pay  the  price  of  what  is  in- 
estimable by  offering  that  which  is  also  beyond  price. 
Will  you  therefore  condescend,  sir,  to  accept  the  gift  I 
make  you  of  a  sacred  relic.  .  .  .  Perhaps  the  day  will 
come  when  you  will  understand  its  value.' 

As  he  ceased  speaking,  the  stranger  held  out  to  the 
priest  a  little  box  that  was  extremely  light.  The  latter 


92     AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR 

took  it  in  his  hands  automatically,  so  to  say,  for  the 
solemnity  of  the  words  of  this  man,  the  tone  in  which 
he  spoke,  the  reverence  with  which  he  handled  the  box, 
had  plunged  him  into  a  reverie  of  deep  astonishment. 
Then  they  returned  to  the  room  where  the  two  nuns 
were  waiting  for  them. 

'You  are,'  said  the  stranger  to  them,  'in  a  house  the 
proprietor  of  which,  the  plasterer,  Mucius  Scaevola,  who 
lives  in  the  first  story,  is  famous  in  the  quarter  for  his 
patriotism.  But  all  the  same  he  is  secretly  attached  to 
the  Bourbons.  Formerly  he  was  a  huntsman  to  Mon- 
seigneur  the  Prince  de  Conti,  and  he  owes  his  fortune 
to  him.  By  staying  here  you  are  safer  than  anywhere 
else  in  France.  Remain  here,  therefore.  Certain  pious 
souls  will  provide  for  your  needs,  and  you  can  wait 
without  danger  for  less  evil  times.  A  year  hence,  on 
January  2ist'  (as  he  pronounced  these  last  words, 
he  could  not  conceal  an  involuntary  start),  '  if  this 
poor  place  is  still  your  refuge,  I  shall  come  back  to 
assist  once  more  with  you  at  a  mass  of  expiation.' 

He  stopped  without  further  explanation.  He  saluted 
the  silent  inhabitants  of  the  garret,  took  in  with  a  last 
look  the  signs  that  told  of  their  poverty,  and  left  the 
room. 

For  the  two  simple  nuns  such  an  adventure  had  all 
the  interest  of  a  romance.  So  when  the  venerable 
abbe"  had  told  them  of  the  mysterious  present  so 
solemnly  made  to  him  by  this  man,  they  placed  the 
box  on  the  table,  and  the  feeble  light  of  the  candle, 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR     93 

shining  on  the  three  anxious  faces,  showed  on  all  of 
them  a  look  of  indescribable  curiosity.  Mademoiselle 
de  Langeais  opened  the  box,  and  found  in  it  a  hand- 
kerchief of  fine  cambric  soiled  with  perspiration.  As 
they  unfolded  it  they  saw  spots  on  it : — 

'  They  are  blood  stains,'  said  the  priest. 

'  It  is  marked  with  the  royal  crown  ! '  exclaimed  the 
other  sister. 

With  a  feeling  of  horror  the  two  sisters  dropped  the 
precious  relic.  For  these  two  simple  souls  the  mystery 
that  surrounded  the  stranger  had  become  something 
inexplicable.  And,  as  for  the  priest,  from  that  day  he 
did  not  even  attempt  to  find  an  explanation  of  it  in 
his  own  mind. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  three  prisoners  realised 
that  notwithstanding  the  Terror  an  invisible  hand  was 
stretched  out  to  protect  them.  At  first  firewood  and 
provisions  were  sent  in  for  them.  Then  the  two  nuns 
guessed  that  a  woman  was  associated  with  their  pro- 
tector, for  they  were  sent  linen  and  clothes  that  would 
make  it  possible  for  them  to  go  out  without  attracting 
attention  by  the  aristocratic  fashion  of  the  dress  they 
had  been  forced  to  wear  till  then.  Finally  Mucius  Scae- 
vola  provided  them  with  two  '  civic  cards,'  certificates  of 
good  citizenship.  Often  by  roundabout  ways  they  re- 
ceived warnings,  that  were  necessary  for  the  safety  of 
the  priest,  and  they  recognised  that  these  friendly  hints 
came  so  opportunely  that  they  could  only  emanate  from 
some  one  who  was  initiated  into  the  secrets  of  the 


94     AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR 

state.  Notwithstanding  the  famine  from  which  Paris 
was  suffering,  the  refugees  found  rations  of  white  bread 
left  regularly  at  their  garret  door  by  invisible  hands. 
However,  they  thought  they  could  identify  in  Mucius 
Scaevola  the  mysterious  agent  of  this  beneficence,  which 
was  always  as  ingenious  as  it  was  well  directed. 

The  noble  refugees  in  the  garret  could  have  no  doubt 
but  that  their  protector  was  the  same  person  who  had 
come  to  assist  at  the  mass  of  expiation  on  the  night  of 
January  22nd,  1793.  He  thus  became  the  object  of  a 
very  special  regard  on  the  part  of  all  three.  They 
hoped  in  him  only,  lived  only  thanks  to  him.  They 
had  added  special  prayers  for  him  to  their  devotions ; 
morning  and  night  these  pious  souls  offered  up  petitions 
for  his  welfare,  for  his  prosperity,  for  his  salvation. 
They  begged  God  to  remove  all  temptations  from  him, 
to  deliver  him  from  his  enemies,  and  to  give  him  a 
long  and  peaceful  life.  Their  gratitude  was  thus,  so  to 
say,  daily  renewed,  but  was  inevitably  associated  with  a 
feeling  of  curiosity  that  became  keener  as  day  after  day 
went  by. 

The  circumstances  that  had  attended  the  appearance 
of  the  stranger  were  the  subject  of  their  conversations. 
They  formed  a  thousand  conjectures  with  regard  to 
him,  and  it  was  a  fresh  benefit  to  them  of  another  kind 
that  he  thus  served  to  distract  their  minds  from  other 
thoughts.  They  were  quite  determined  that  on  the 
night,  when,  according  to  his  promise,  he  would  come 
back  to  celebrate  the  mournful  anniversary  of  the 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR     95 

death  of  Louis  xvr.,  they  would  not  let  him  go  without 
establishing  more  friendly  relations  with  him. 

The  night,  to  which  they  had  looked  forward  so 
impatiently,  came  at  last.  At  midnight  the  heavy  foot- 
steps of  the  unknown  resounded  on  the  old  wooden 
stair.  The  room  had  been  made  ready  to  receive  him  ; 
the  altar  was  prepared.  This  time  the  sisters  opened 
the  door  before  he  reached  it,  and  both  hastened  to 
show  a  light  on  the  staircase.  Mademoiselle  de  Lan- 
geais  even  went  down  a  few  steps  in  order  the  sooner 
to  see  their  benefactor. 

'  Come,'  she  said  to  him  in  a  voice  trembling  with 
affection,  'come  .  .  .  you  are  expected.' 

The  man  raised  his  head,  and  without  replying  cast  a 
gloomy  look  at  the  nun.  She  felt  as  if  a  mantle  of  ice 
had  fallen  around  her,  and  kept  silence.  At  the  sight 
of  him  the  feeling  of  gratitude  and  of  curiosity  died  out 
in  all  their  hearts.  He  was  perhaps  less  cold,  less 
taciturn,  less  terrible  than  he  appeared  to  these  souls, 
whom  the  excitement  of  their  feelings  disposed  to  a 
warm  and  friendly  welcome.  The  three  poor  prisoners 
realised  that  the  man  wished  to  remain  a  stranger  to 
them,  and  they  accepted  the  situation. 

The  priest  thought  that  he  noticed  a  smile,  that  was 
at  once  repressed,  play  upon  the  lips  of  the  unknown, 
when  he  remarked  the  preparations  that  had  been  made 
for  his  reception.  He  heard  mass  and  prayed.  But 
then  he  went  away  after  having  declined,  with  a  few 
words  of  polite  refusal,  the  invitation  that  Mademoiselle 


96     AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR 

de  Langeais  offered  him  to  share  with  them  the  little 
supper  that  had  been  made  ready. 

After  the  Qth  Thermidor — (the  fall  of  Robespierre) — 
both  the  nuns  and  the  Abbe  de  Marolles  were  able  to 
go  about  in  Paris  without  incurring  the  least  danger. 
The  old  priest's  first  excursion  was  to  a  perfumer's  shop 
at  the  sign  of  the  Reinc  des  f!eurs,  kept  by  Citizen 
Ragon  and  his  wife,  formerly  perfumers  to  the  court, 
who  had  remained  faithful  to  the  royal  family.  The 
Vendeans  made  use  of  them  as  their  agents  for  corre- 
sponding with  the  exiled  princes  and  the  royalist  com- 
mittee at  Paris.  The  abbe,  dressed  as  the  times 
required,  was  standing  on  the  doorstep  of  the  shop, 
which  was  situated  between  the  Church  of  Saint  Roch 
and  the  Rue  des  Frondeurs,  when  a  crowd,  which  filled 
all  the  Rue  Saint-Honore,  prevented  him  from  going 
out. 

'What  is  the  matter?'  he  asked  Madame  Ragon. 

'  It 's  nothing,'  she  replied.  '  It 's  the  cart  with  the 
executioner  on  the  way  to  the  Place  Louis  xv.  Ah ! 
we  saw  it  often  enough  last  year.  But  to-day,  four  days 
after  the  anniversary  of  January  2ist,  one  can  watch 
that  terrible  procession  go  by  without  feeling  displeasure.' 

'  Why  ? '  said  the  abbe,  '  it  is  not  Christian  of  you  to 
talk  thus.' 

'  But  it 's  the  execution  of  the  accomplices  of  Robe- 
spierre. They  did  their  best  to  save  themselves,  but 
they  are  going  in  their  turn  where  they  sent  so  many 
innocent  people ! ' 


AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR     97 

The  crowd  was  pouring  past  like  a  flood.  The 
Abbe  de  Marolles,  yielding  to  an  impulse  of  curiosity, 
saw,  standing  erect  on  the  cart,  the  man  who  three  days 
before  had  come  to  hear  his  mass. 

'  Who  is  that  ?  '  he  said,  '  the  man  who  .  .  . ' 

'  It 's  the  hangman,'  replied  Monsieur  Ragon,  giving 
the  executioner  the  name  he  bore  under  the  monarchy. 

'My  dear,  my  dear,'  cried  out  Madame  Ragon, 
'  Monsieur  1'Abbe  is  dying  ! ' 

And  the  old  lady  seized  a  bottle  of  smelling  salts 
with  which  to  revive  the  aged  priest  from  a  fainting  fit. 

'No  doubt,'  he  said,  'what  he  gave  me  was  the 
handkerchief  with  which  the  King  wiped  his  forehead 
as  he  went  to  martyrdom.  .  .  .  Poor  man !  .  .  .  The 
steel  blade  had  a  heart  when  all  France  was  heart- 
less!  .  .  .' 

The  perfumers  thought  that  the  poor  priest  was 
raving. 


FACING  CANE 

I  WAS  living  in  a  small  street  of  which  doubtless  you  do 
not  even  know  the  name,  the  Rue  des  Lesdiguieres. 
It  begins  at  the  Rue  St.  Antoine  opposite  the  fountain 
near  the  Place  de  la  Bastille,  and  runs  into  the  Rue 
de  la  Cerisaie.  The  love  of  learning  had  flung  me  into 
a  garret  where  I  worked  during  the  night,  and  I  passed 
the  day  in  a  neighbouring  library,  the  BibliothZque  de 
Monsieur.  I  lived  frugally.  I  had  accepted  all  those  con- 
ditions of  a  monastic  life  that  are  so  necessary  to  workers. 
When  it  was  fine  I  barely  allowed  myself  a  walk  on  the 
Boulevard  Bourdon.  One  passion  only  drew  me  away 
from  my  studious  habits,  but  was  not  even  that  a  sort 
of  study  ?  I  would  go  out  to  observe  the  manners  of 
the  Faubourg,  its  inhabitants  and  their  characters.  As 
badly  dressed  as  the  workmen  themselves  and  careless 
about  keeping  up  an  appearance,  I  did  not  make  them 
in  any  way  suspicious  of  me.  I  could  mingle  freely 
with  them,  and  watch  them  making  their  bargains  and 
quarrelling  amongst  themselves  as  they  left  their  work. 
With  me  the  power  of  observation  had  already  become 
intuitive.  It  penetrated  to  the  soul,  without  leaving  the 
body  out  of  account :  or  rather,  it  grasped  so  well  the 
outer  details,  that  it  went  at  once  beyond  them ;  it  gave 


FACING  CANE  99 

me  the  power  of  living  the  life  of  the  individual,  on 
whom  I  brought  it  to  bear,  thus  permitting  me  in  fancy 
to  substitute  myself  for  him,  as  the  dervish  in  the 
Arabian  Nights  took  the  body  and  soul  of  the  persons 
over  whom  he  pronounced  certain  words. 

When  between  eleven  o'clock  and  midnight  I  met  a 
workman  and  his  wife  returning  together  from  the 
Ambigu  Comique,  I  amused  myself  by  following  them 
from  the  Boulevard  du  Pont-aux-Choux  as  far  as  the 
Boulevard  Beaumarchais.  These  good  people  would 
talk  at  first  of  the  piece  they  had  just  seen.  From  one 
thing  to  another  they  would  get  on  to  their  own  affairs. 
The  mother  would  be  dragging  her  child  by  the  hand 
without  heeding  either  its  complaints  or  its  questions. 
The  pair  would  reckon  up  the  money  that  would  be 
paid  them  next  day,  and  spend  it  in  twenty  different 
ways.  Then  came  household  details ;  complaints  as  to 
the  excessive  price  of  potatoes,  or  about  the  length  of 
the  winter  and  the  dearness  of  peat  fuel ;  strong  repre- 
sentations as  to  the  amount  owing  to  the  baker ;  and  at 
last  disputes  that  became  a  bit  angry,  and  in  which  the 
character  of  each  came  out  in  picturesque  expressions. 
While  listening  to  these  people  I  could  enter  into  their 
life ;  I  felt  myself  with  their  rags  on  my  back ;  I  walked 
with  my  feet  in  their  broken  shoes ;  their  desires,  their 
needs  all  came  into  my  soul,  or  my  soul  passed  into 
theirs.  It  was  the  dream  of  one  who  was  still  wide 
awake.  With  them  I  grew  angry  against  the  foremen 
of  the  workshops  who  tyrannised  over  them,  or  against 


ioo  FACING  CANE 

the  bad  custom  that  forced  them  to  come  again  and 
again  to  ask  in  vain  for  their  pay.  To  get  away  from 
my  ordinary  occupations,  to  become  some  one  else  by 
this  over  excitation  of  my  mental  faculties,  and  to  play 
this  game  at  my  will — this  was  my  recreation.  To 
what  do  I  owe  this  gift  ?  Is  it  a  kind  of  second  sight  ? 
or  is  it  one  of  those  powers  the  abuse  of  which  would 
lead  to  insanity  ?  I  have  never  investigated  the  sources 
of  this  faculty  of  mine ;  I  possess  it  and  I  make  use  of 
it,  that  is  all. 

I  need  only  tell  you  that  in  those  days  I  had  analysed 
the  elements  of  that  heterogeneous  mass  called  '  the 
people,'  so  that  I  could  estimate  their  good  and  bad 
qualities.  Already  I  knew  all  that  was  to  be  learned 
from  that  famous  Faubourg,  that  nursery  of  Revolutions, 
which  gives  shelter  at  once  to  heroes,  inventors,  and 
practical  scientists,  and  knaves  and  scoundrels, — to 
virtues  and  vices,  all  huddled  together  by  misery,  stifled 
by  poverty,  drowned  in  wine,  wasted  by  strong  drink. 
You  would  never  imagine  how  many  unknown  adven- 
tures, how  many  forgotten  dramas  belong  to  that  city  of 
sorrow.  How  many  horrible  and  beautiful  things ! 
For  imagination  would  never  go  so  far  as  the  reality 
that  is  hidden  there,  and  that  no  one  can  go  there  and 
discover.  One  has  to  go  down  to  too  great  a  depth  if 
one  is  to  find  out  those  wonderful  scenes  of  living 
tragedy  or  comedy,  masterpieces  that  chance  has 
brought  into  being. 

I  know  not  why  I  have  so  long  kept  untold  the  story 


FACING  CANE  101 

that  I  am  going  to  relate  to  you ;  it  is  one  of  those 
strange  tales  that  are  laid  by  in  the  bag  from  which 
memory  draws  them  out  at  haphazard  like  the  numbers 
of  a  lottery.  I  have  plenty  of  others  quite  as  singular 
as  this  one,  buried  away  in  the  same  fashion;  but  they 
will  have  their  turn,  believe  me. 

One  day  my  housekeeper,  a  working  man's  wife,  came 
and  asked  me  to  honour  with  my  presence  the  wedding 
of  one  of  her  sisters.  In  order  to  enable  you  to  under- 
stand what  sort  of  a  wedding  it  would  be  I  must  tell 
you  that  I  used  to  pay  forty  sous  a  month  to  this  poor 
creature,  who  came  in  every  morning  to  make  my  bed, 
polish  my  shoes,  brush  my  clothes,  sweep  the  room,  and 
get  my  breakfast  ready.  For  the  rest  of  her  time  she 
went  to  turn  the  handle  of  a  mangle,  and  by  this  hard 
work  earned  ten  sous  a  day.  Her  husband,  a  cabinet- 
maker, earned  four  francs.  But,  as  their  household 
included  three  children,  they  could  barely  pay  for  the 
bread  they  ate.  I  have  never  come  across  more  real  re 
spectability  than  that  of  this  man  and  wife.  Five  years 
after  I  had  left  the  neighbourhood  Dame  Vaillant  came 
to  wish  me  a  happy  name  day,  and  brought  me  a  bunch 
of  flowers  and  some  oranges  as  presents — she  who  had 
never  been  in  a  position  to  save  ten  sous.  Poverty  had 
drawn  us  together.  I  was  never  able  to  pay  her  more 
than  ten  francs,  often  borrowed  for  the  occasion.  This 
will  explain  my  promise  to  go  to  the  wedding ;  I  counted 
on  taking  an  unobtrusive  part  in  the  rejoicings  of  these 
poor  people. 


102  FACING  CANE 

The  feast  and  the  dance  were  both  held  at  a  wine 
shop  in  the  Rue  de  Charenton,  in  a  large  room  on  the 
first  story.  It  was  lighted  with  lamps  with  tin 
reflectors ;  the  paper  showed  grease  spots  at  the  level 
of  the  tables,  and  along  the  walls  there  were  wooden 
benches.  In  this  room  some  eighty  people,  dressed  in 
their  Sunday  clothes,  decked  out  with  flowers  and 
ribbons,  all  full  of  the  holiday  spirit,  danced  with 
flushed  faces  as  if  the  world  was  coming  to  an  end. 
The  happy  pair  kissed  each  other  amid  a  general  out- 
break of  satisfaction,  and  one  heard  '  Eh  !  eh  ! '  and 
1  Ah  !  ah  ! '  pronounced  in  a  tone  of  amusement,  that  all 
the  same  was  more  respectable  than  the  timid  ogling  of 
young  women  of  a  better  class.  Every  one  manifested 
a  rough  and  ready  pleasure  that  had  in  it  something 
infectious. 

But  neither  the  general  aspect  of  the  gathering,  nor 
the  wedding,  nor  anything  of  the  kind,  has  really  to  do 
with  our  story.  Only  I  want  you  to  keep  in  mind  the 
quaint  setting  of  it  all.  Imagine  to  yourself  the  shabby 
shop,  with  its  decorations  of  red  paint,  smell  the  odour 
of  the  wine,  listen  to  the  shouts  of  delight,  keep  to  the 
Faubourg,  in  the  midst  of  these  workers,  these  old  men, 
these  poor  women  abandoning  themselves  to  one  night 
of  pleasure. 

The  orchestra  was  made  up  of  three  blind  men  from 
the  Hospice  des  Quinze-Vingts ;  the  first  was  the  violin, 
the  second  the  clarionet,  and  the  third  the  flageolet. 
All  three  were  paid  one  lump  sum  of  seven  francs  for 


FACING  CANE  103 

the  night.  At  this  price,  of  course,  they  gave  us  neither 
Rossini  nor  Beethoven;  they  played  what  they  liked 
and  what  they  could,  and  with  a  charming  delicacy  of 
feeling  no  one  found  fault  with  them  for  it !  Their  music 
was  such  a  rough  trial  to  my  ears,  that,  after  a  glance 
at  the  audience,  I  looked  at  the  trio  of  blind  men,  and 
recognising  the  uniform  of  the  hospice,  I  felt  from  the 
first  disposed  to  be  indulgent.  These  artists  were 
seated  in  the  deep  bay  of  a  window,  and  thus  in  order 
to  be  able  to  distinguish  their  features  one  had  to  be 
near  them  ;  I  did  not  at  once  come  close  to  them  ;  but 
when  I  approached  them  I  cannot  say  how  it  was,  but 
all  was  over  with  me,  I  forgot  the  marriage  and  the 
music ;  my  curiosity  was  excited  to  the  highest  pitch, 
for  my  soul  passed  into  the  body  of  the  clarionet 
player.  The  violin  and  the  flageolet  had  both  common- 
place features,  the  well-known  face  of  the  blind,  with 
its  strained  look,  all  attention  and  seriousness ;  but  that 
of  the  clarionet  player  was  one  of  those  phenomenal 
faces  that  make  the  artist  or  the  philosopher  stop  at 
once  to  look  at  them. 

Imagine  a  plaster  mask  of  Dante,  lighted  up  with  the 
red  glare  of  an  Argand-lamp,  and  crowned  with  a  forest 
of  silver  white  hair.  His  blindness  added  to  the  bitter, 
sorrowful  expression  of  this  splendid  face,  for  one  could 
imagine  the  dead  eyes  were  alive  again;  a  burning 
light  seemed  to  shine  out  from  them,  the  expression  of 
a  single,  ceaseless  desire  that  had  set  its  deep  marks 
on  the  rounded  forehead,  which  was  scored  by  wrinkles 


io4  FACING  CANE 

like  the  lines  of  an  old  wall.  The  old  man  was  blowing 
away  at  haphazard,  without  paying  the  least  attention 
to  time  or  tune,  his  fingers  rising  and  falling,  and 
moving  the  old  keys  through  mere  mechanical  habit. 
He  did  not  trouble  about  making  what  is  called  in  the 
slang  of  the  orchestra  '  quacks,'  and  the  dancers  took 
no  more  notice  of  this  than  the  two  comrades  of  my 
Italian  did — for  I  made  up  my  mind  that  he  must  be 
an  Italian,  and  an  Italian  he  was.  There  was  some- 
thing noble  and  commanding  to  be  seen  in  this  aged 
Homer,  who  kept  all  to  himself  some  Odyssey  destined 
to  forgetfulness.  It  was  a  nobility  so  real  that  it  still 
triumphed  over  his  obscurity ;  an  air  of  command  so 
striking  that  it  rose  superior  to  his  poverty.  None  of 
the  strong  feelings  that  lead  a  man  to  good  as  well  as  to 
evil,  that  make  of  him  a  convict  or  a  hero,  were  wanting 
to  this  splendidly  outlined  face,  with  its  sallow,  Italian 
complexion,  and  the  shadows  of  the  iron-grey  eyebrows 
that  threw  their  shade  over  the  deep  cavities  in  which 
one  would  tremble  at  seeing  the  light  of  thought  appear 
once  more,  as  one  fears  to  see  brigands  armed  with 
torch  and  dagger  show  themselves  at  the  mouth  of 
a  cavern.  There  was  a  lion  in  that  cage  of  flesh,  a  lion 
of  which  the  fury  had  uselessly  spent  itself  on  the 
iron  of  its  bars.  The  fire  of  despair  had  burned  out 
among  its  ashes,  the  lava  had  cooled ;  but  rifts, 
fallen  rocks,  and  a  little  smoke  told  of  the  violence 
of  the  eruption,  the  ravages  of  the  fire.  These  ideas 
called  up  by  the  aspect  of  the  man  were  as  warmly 


FACING  CANE  105 

pictured  in  my  mind,  as  they  were  coldly  marked  upon 
his  face. 

In  the  interval  between  each  dance  the  violin  and 
the  flageolet,  becoming  seriously  occupied  with  a  bottle 
and  glasses,  hung  their  instruments  to  a  button  of  their 
reddish  tunics,  and  stretched  out  a  hand  to  a  little 
table  standing  in  the  bay  of  the  window,  on  which  were 
their  refreshments.  They  always  offered  the  Italian 
a  full  glass,  which  he  could  not  have  got  unaided,  for 
the  table  was  behind  his  chair.  Each  time  the  clarionet 
thanked  them  with  a  friendly  nod  of  his  head.  Their 
movements  were  carried  out  with  that  precision,  which 
always  seems  so  astonishing  in  the  case  of  the  blind 
folk  from  the  Quinze-Vingts,  and  which  seems  to  make 
one  think  they  can  see.  I  drew  near  to  the  three  blind 
men  to  listen  to  them,  but  when  I  stood  near  them 
they  somehow  scrutinised  me,  and  doubtless  failing  to 
recognise  the  workman  type  in  me,  they  said  not  a  word. 

'From  what  country  are  you,  you  who  play  the 
clarionet  ? ' 

'  From  Venice,'  answered  the  blind  man,  with  a  slight 
Italian  accent. 

'  Were  you  born  blind,  or  were  you  blinded  by  ..." 

'  By  a  mishap,'  he  replied  sharply ;  '  a  cursed  amau- 
rosis  in  my  eyes.' 

'Venice  is  a  beautiful  city.  I  have  always  had  an 
idea  of  going  there.' 

The  face  of  the  old  man  became  animated,  its  furrows 
rose  and  fell,  he  was  strongly  moved. 


106  FACING  CANE 

'  If  I  went  there  with  you,  you  would  not  lose  your 
time,'  said  he  to  me. 

'  Don't  talk  of  Venice  to  him,'  said  the  violin  to  me, 
'  or  our  Doge  will  start  his  story.  Besides  that  he  has 
already  two  bottles  under  his  belt,  the  old  prince  ! ' 

'Come,  let  us  be  getting  on,  Pere  Canard,'  said  the 
flageolet. 

All  three  began  to  play ;  but  all  the  time  that  they 
were  going  through  the  four  parts  of  the  quadrille  the 
Venetian  was  sizing  me  up;  he  guessed  the  extra- 
ordinary interest  I  took  in  him.  His  face  lost  its  cold 
expression  of  sadness.  Some  hope  or  other  brightened 
all  his  features —  played  like  a  blue  flame  in  the  wrinkles 
of  his  face.  He  smiled  as  he  wiped  his  forehead — 
that  forehead  with  its  bold  and  terrible  look ;  finally  he 
became  quite  gay,  like  a  man  who  is  getting  up  on  his 
hobby. 

'  What  is  your  age  ? '  I  asked  him. 

'  Eighty-two  years.' 

'  How  long  have  you  been  blind  ? ' 

'It  will  soon  be  fifty  years,'  he  replied,  in  a  tone 
which  suggested  that  his  regret  was  not  only  for  the 
loss  of  his  sight,  but  also  for  some  great  power  of  which 
he  had  been  deprived. 

'  But  why  do  they  call  you  the  Doge  ? '  I  asked  him. 

'Ah  !  that's  a  joke,'  he  said;  'I  am  a  patrician  of 
Venice,  and  I  could  have  been  a  Doge  as  well  as  any 
one  else.' 

'  What  is  your  name  then  ? ' 


FACING  CANE  107 

'  Here,'  he  said,  '  I  am  old  Canet.  My  name  has 
never  appeared  otherwise  on  the  local  registers.  But  in 
Italian  it  is  Marco  Facino  Cane,  Prince  of  Varese.' 

'  What !  Are  you  descended  from  the  famous  con- 
dottiere,  Facino  Cane,  whose  conquests  passed  into  the 
possession  of  the  Dukes  of  Milan  ? ' 

'  £  vero  (that 's  true),'  said  he.  '  In  those  times  the 
son  of  Cane,  to  escape  being  killed  by  the  Visconti, 
took  refuge  in  Venice,  and  had  his  name  inscribed  in 
the  Golden  Book  of  nobility.  But  now  neither  the 
Book  nor  any  of  the  House  of  Cane  are  left ! ' 

And  he  made  a  startling  gesture  to  signify  his  feeling 
that  patriotism  was  dead,  and  his  disgust  for  human 
affairs. 

'But  if  you  were  a  Senator  of  Venice,  you  must 
have  been  rich.  How  did  you  come  to  lose  your 
fortune  ? ' 

At  this  question  he  raised  his  head,  turning  to  me  as 
if  regarding  me  with  a  movement  full  of  truest  tragedy, 
and  replied  to  me  : — 

'  In  the  midst  of  misfortunes  ! ' 

He  no  longer  thought  of  drinking ;  with  a  wave  of 
his  hand  he  refused  the  glass  of  wine  which  the  old 
flageolet  player  offered  him  at  this  moment,  then  he 
bowed  down  his  head. 

These  details  were  not  of  a  kind  to  put  an  end  to  my 
curiosity.  During  the  quadrille  that  the  three  instru- 
ments played  in  mechanical  style,  I  watched  the  old 
Venetian  noble  with  the  feelings  that  devour  a  man  of 

i 


io8  FACING  CANE 

only  twenty.  I  saw  Venice  and  the  Adriatic,  and  I 
saw  its  ruin  in  this  ruined  face.  I  was  moving  about  in 
that  city  so  beloved  of  its  inhabitants.  I  went  from  the 
Rialto  to  the  Grand  Canal,  from  the  Riva  degli  Schiavoni 
to  the  Lido ;  I  came  back  to  its  cathedral  so  sublime 
in  its  originality;  I  looked  up  at  the  windows  of  the 
Casa  d'Oro,  each  of  which  has  different  ornaments ;  I 
contemplated  its  old  palaces,  so  rich  in  marbles — in  a 
word,  all  those  wonders  that  move  the  student's  feelings 
all  the  more  when  he  can  colour  them  with  his  fancy, 
and  does  not  spoil  the  poetry  of  his  dreams  by  the 
sight  of  the  reality.  I  traced  backward  the  course  of 
the  life  of  this  scion  of  the  greatest  of  the  condottieri, 
seeking  out  in  it  the  traces  of  his  misfortunes  and  the 
causes  of  the  deep  physical  and  moral  degradation  that 
made  the  sparks  of  greatness  and  nobility  that  shone 
again  at  that  moment  seem  all  the  finer.  Our  thoughts 
were  no  doubt  in  mutual  accord,  for  I  believe  that 
blindness  makes  mental  communication  much  more 
rapid,  by  preventing  the  attention  from  dispersing  itself 
on  external  things.  I  had  not  long  to  wait  for  a  proof 
of  our  bond  of  feeling.  Facino  Cane  stopped  playing, 
rose,  came  to  me  and  said,  '  Come  out,'  in  a  way  that 
produced  on  me  the  effect  of  an  electric  shock.  I  gave 
him  my  arm  and  we  went  away. 

When  we  were  in  the  street,  he  said  to  me : — 
'  Will  you  take  me  to  Venice,  guide  me  there  ?    Will 
you  have  confidence  in  me  ?    You  will  be  richer  than 
the  ten  richest  firms  of  Amsterdam  or  London ;  richer 


FACING  CANE  109 

than  the  Rothschilds  ;  in  a  word,  rich  as  the  Arabian 
Nights.' 

I  thought  the  man  was  mad.  But  there  was  in  his 
voice  a  power  that  I  obeyed.  I  let  him  lead  me,  and 
he  took  me  in  the  direction  of  the  ditches  of  the 
Bastille,  as  if  he  still  had  the  use  of  his  eyes.  He  sat 
down  on  a  stone  in  a  very  lonely  place,  where,  since 
then,  the  bridge  has  been  built  under  which  the  Canal 
Saint  Martin  passes  to  the  Seine.  I  took  my  place  on 
another  stone  facing  the  old  man,  whose  white  hairs 
glittered  like  threads  of  silver  in  the  moonlight.  The 
silence,  hardly  disturbed  by  such  stormy  sounds  as 
reached  us  from  the  Boulevards,  the  brightness  of  the 
night,  all  helped  to  make  the  scene  something  fantastic. 

'  You  talk  of  millions  to  a  young  man,  and  you  think 
that  he  would  hesitate  to  endure  a  thousand  ills  to 
secure  them  !  Are  you  not  making  a  jest  of  me  ? ' 

'  May  I  die  without  confession,'  said  he  fiercely,  '  if 
what  I  am  about  to  tell  you  is  not  true !  I  was  once  a 
young  man  of  twenty  as  you  are  now.  I  was  rich.  I 
was  handsome.  I  was  a  noble.  I  began  with  first  of  all 
follies — love.  I  loved  as  men  no  longer  love,  going  so 
far  as  to  hide  in  a  chest  at  the  risk  of  being  stabbed, 
without  having  received  anything  else  but  the  promise 
of  a  kiss.  To  die  for  her  seemed  to  me  worth  a  whole 
life.  In  1760  I  fell  in  love  with  one  of  the  Vendramini, 
a  girl  of  eighteen,  married  to  a  certain  Sagredo,  one  of 
the  richest  of  the  Senators,  a  man  of  thirty  years,  madly 
devoted  to  his  wife.  My  lover  and  I,  we  were  as  inno- 


no  FACING  CANE 

cent  as  two  little  cherubs  when  the  husband  surprised 
us  talking  love  together.  I  was  unarmed,  he  was  armed 
but  he  missed  me.  I  sprang  on  him,  I  strangled  him 
with  my  two  hands,  twisting  his  neck  like  a  chicken's. 
I  wanted  to  go  away  with  Bianca,  but  she  would  not  go 
with  me.  That 's  what  women  are  like  !  I  went  away 
alone.  I  was  condemned  in  my  absence,  my  property 
was  confiscated  for  the  benefit  of  my  heirs ;  but  I  had 
carried  off  with  rne  my  diamonds,  five  pictures  by  Titian 
rolled  up,  and  all  my  gold.  I  went  to  Milan,  where  I 
was  not  molested,  for  my  affair  did  not  interest  the  State. 

'One  little  remark  before  going  on,'  he  said,  after 
a  pause.  '  Whether  it  is  true  or  not  that  a  woman's 
fancies  influence  her  child  before  its  birth,  it  is  certain 
that  my  mother  had  a  passion  for  gold  while  she  was 
expecting  mine.'  I  have  a  monomania  for  gold,  the 
satisfaction  of  which  is  so  necessary  for  my  very  life, 
that  in  whatever  circumstances  I  have  been,  I  have 
never  been  without  some  gold  in  my  possession.  I  am 
always  handling  gold.  When  I  was  young  I  always 
wore  jewels,  and  I  always  carried  about  with  me  two  or 
three  hundred  ducats.' 

As  he  said  these  words  he  took  two  ducats  out  of  his 
pocket  and  showed  them  to  me. 

'I  can  smell  gold.  Although  I  am  blind,  I  stop 
in  front  of  the  jewellers'  shops.  This  passion  was 
my  ruin.  I  became  a  gambler,  to  have  the  enjoy- 
ment of  gold.  I  was  not  a  swindler ;  I  was  swindled. 
I  ruined  myself.  When  I  had  no  longer  any  of  my 


FACING  CANE  in 

fortune  left  I  was  seized  with  a  wild  longing  to  see 
Bianca  again.  I  returned  secretly  to  Venice.  I  found 
her  once  more ;  I  was  happy  for  six  months,  hidden 
with  her,  supported  by  her.  I  had  a  delightful  thought 
of  thus  living  my  life  to  the  end.  Her  hand  was  sought 
by  the  Proveditore  of  the  Republic.  He  guessed  he 
had  a  rival ;  in  Italy  they  can  almost  smell  them  ;  he 
spied  on  us,  and  surprised  us  together,  the  coward  ! 
You  can  imagine  what  a  sharp  fight  there  was.  I  did 
not  kill  him,  but  I  wounded  him  seriously.  That 
adventure  broke  off  my  happiness.  Since  that  day  I 
never  found  any  one  like  Bianca.  I  have  had  many 
pleasures.  I  lived  at  the  court  of  Louis  xv.  in  the 
midst  of  the  most  famous  women,  but  nowhere 
did  I  find  the  characteristics,  the  graces,  the  love  of 
my  fair  Venetian. 

'  The  Proveditore  had  his  followers.  He  called  them. 
The  palace  was  surrounded.  I  defended  myself,  hoping 
to  die  before  the  eyes  of  my  dear  Bianca,  who  helped 
me  to  kill  the  Proveditore.  Formerly  this  woman  had 
refused  to  share  my  flight,  now,  after  six  months  of 
happiness,  she  was  ready  to  die  my  death,  and  received 
several  blows.  Entangled  in  a  big  cloak  that  they 
threw  over  me,  I  was  rolled  in  it,  carried  to  a  gondola 
and  conveyed  to  the  dungeons  of  the  Pozzi.  I  was  only 
twenty-two  years  old  then,  and  I  held  so  fast  to  the 
fragment  of  my  broken  sword,  that  to  get  it  from  me 
they  would  have  had  to  cut  off  my  wrist.  By  a  strange 
chance,  or  rather  inspired  by  a  thought  for  the  future, 


ii2  FACING  CANE 

I  hid  this  bit  of  steel  in  a  corner,  in  case  it  might  be  of 
use  to  me.  I  was  given  medical  care.  None  of  my 
wounds  were  mortal.  At  twenty-two  one  can  recover 
from  anything.  I  was  doomed  to  die  by  decapitation, 
but  I  pretended  to  be  ill  in  order  to  gain  time.  I 
believed  that  I  was  in  a  dungeon  next  to  the  canal. 
My  plan  was  to  escape  by  making  a  hole  through  the 
wall  and  swimming  across  the  canal  at  the  risk  of 
drowning  myself. 

'  Here  are  some  of  the  reasons  on  which  I  based  my 
hopes  : — 

'  Whenever  the  jailer  brought  me  my  food  I  read,  by 
the  light  he  carried,  inscriptions  scrawled  upon  the  walls, 
such  as,  "  Towards  the  palace,"  "  Towards  the  canal," 
"Towards  the  underground  passage,"  and  at  last 
succeeded  in  making  out  a  general  plan  of  the  place. 
There  were  some  small  difficulties  about  it,  but  they 
could  be  explained  by  the  actual  state  of  the  Palace  of 
the  Doges,  which  is  not  completed.  With  the  clever- 
ness that  the  desire  to  regain  one's  liberty  gives  one, 
by  feeling  with  my  fingers  the  surface  of  a  stone,  I 
succeeded  in  deciphering  an  Arabic  inscription,  by 
which  the  writer  of  the  words  intimated  to  his  suc- 
cessors that  he  had  loosened  two  stones  in  the  lowest 
course  of  masonry,  and  dug  beyond  them  eleven  feet  of 
a  tunnel.  In  order  to  continue  his  task  it  was  necessary 
to  spread  over  the  floor  of  the  dungeon  itself  the  little 
bits  of  stone  and  mortar  produced  by  the  work  of  ex- 
cavation. Even  if  my  keepers  or  the  inquisitors  had 


FACING  CANE  113 

not  felt  quite  easy  in  their  minds  on  account  of  the  very 
structure  of  the  building,  which  made  only  an  external 
surveillance  necessary,  the  arrangement  of  the  Pozzi 
dungeons,  into  which  one  descends  by  a  few  steps,  made 
it  possible  gradually  to  raise  the  level  of  the  floor  with- 
out its  being  noticed  by  the  jailers.  The  immense 
amount  of  work  he  had  done  had  proved  to  be  super- 
fluous, at  least  for  the  man  who  had  undertaken  it,  for 
the  fact  that  it  had  been  left  unfinished  told  of  the 
death  of  the  unknown  prisoner.  In  order  that  his  zeal 
might  not  be  useless  for  ever,  it  was  necessary  that  some 
future  prisoner  should  know  Arabic ;  but  I  had  studied 
Eastern  languages  at  the  Armenian  convent  of  Venice. 
A  sentence  written  on  the  back  of  one  of  the  stones 
told  the  fate  of  this  unfortunate  man,  who  had  died  the 
victim  of  his  immense  riches,  which  Venice  had  coveted, 
and  of  which  she  had  taken  possession.  It  took  me  a 
month  to  arrive  at  any  result.  Whilst  I  was  at  work, 
and  during  the  intervals  when  I  was  overwhelmed  with 
fatigue  I  heard  the  sound  of  gold,  I  thought  I  could  see 
gold  before  me,  I  was  dazzled  by  diamonds  !  .  .  .  Oh ! 
just  wait. 

'One  night,  my  piece  of  steel,  now  blunted,  came 
upon  wood.  I  sharpened  my  broken  fragment  of  a  sword 
and  made  a  hole  in  the  wood.  In  order  to  work  I  used 
to  drag  myself  along  like  a  serpent  on  my  stomach,  and 
I  stripped  so  as  to  dig  like  a  mole,  with  my  hands  out 
in  front  of  me,  stretched  on  the  stones  I  had  already 
burrowed  through.  In  two  days  I  was  to  appear  before 


ii4  FACING  CANE 

my  judges,  so  during  this  night  I  meant  to  make  a  last 
effort.  I  cut  through  the  wood,  and  my  blade  struck 
against  nothing  beyond  it. 

'  Imagine  my  surprise  when  I  put  my  eye  to  the  hole  ! 
I  had  penetrated  the  wainscot  of  an  underground  room, 
in  which  a  dim  light  allowed  me  to  see  a  great  heap  of 
gold.  The  Doge  and  one  of  the  Council  of  Ten  were 
in  this  cellar.  I  heard  their  voices.  From  their  talk,  I 
gathered  that  here  was  the  secret  hoard  of  the  Republic, 
the  gifts  of  the  Doges,  and  the  reserves  of  booty  known 
as  the  "  share  of  Venice,"  and  levied  on  the  produce  of 
over-sea  expeditions. 

c  I  was  saved  ! 

'  When  next  the  jailer  came,  I  proposed  to  him  to 
assist  me  to  escape,  and  to  go  away  with  me,  taking  off 
with  us  all  that  we  could  carry.  There  was  no  reason  to 
hesitate,  and  he  agreed.  A  ship  was  about  to  sail  for 
the  Levant.  Every  precaution  was  taken.  Bianca  lent 
her  aid  to  the  plans  I  dictated  to  my  accomplice.  In 
order  not  to  arouse  suspicion  Bianca  was  to  rejoin  us 
only  at  Smyrna.  In  a  single  night  the  hole  was  en- 
larged, and  we  climbed  down  into  the  secret  treasury  of 
Venice.  What  a  night !  I  saw  four  huge  casks  full  of 
gold.  In  the  room  before  that,  silver  was  in  the  same 
profusion,  piled  up  in  two  heaps,  leaving  a  path  in  the 
middle  by  which  to  pass  through  the  room,  with  the 
coins  sloping  up  in  piles  on  each  side  till  they  reached  a 
height  of  five  feet  at  the  walls.  I  thought  the  jailer 
would  go  mad.  He  sang,  he  danced,  he  laughed,  he  cut 


FACING  CANE  115 

capers  among  the  gold.  I  threatened  to  strangle  him  if 
he  wasted  our  time  or  made  a  noise.  In  his  joy  he  did 
not  at  first  notice  a  table  on  which  were  the  diamonds. 
I  threw  myself  upon  it  so  cleverly  that  I  was  able,  un- 
seen by  him,  to  fill  with  them  my  sailor's  jacket  and 
the  pockets  of  my  trousers.  Mon  Dieu  !  but  I  did  not 
take  one-third  of  them.  Under  this  table  there  were 
ingots  of  gold.  I  persuaded  my  comrade  to  fill  as  many 
sacks  as  we  could  carry  with  gold,  pointing  out  to  him 
that  this  was  the  only  way  in  which  our  plunder  would 
not  lead  to  our  being  discovered  abroad. 

'  "  Pearls,  jewels,  and  diamonds  would  only  lead  to  our 
being  recognised,"  I  said  to  him. 

'  Whatever  might  be  our  eagerness  for  it,  we  could 
not  take  away  more  than  two  thousand  pounds  of  gold, 
and  this  required  six  journeys  through  the  prison  to  get 
it  to  the  gondola.  The  sentinel  at  the  water  gate  had 
been  won  over  at  the  price  of  a  sack  of  ten  pounds  of 
gold.  As  for  the  two  gondoliers  they  were  under  the 
impression  that  they  were  serving  the  Republic.  We 
made  our  start  at  daybreak.  When  we  were  in  the 
open  sea,  and  when  I  remembered  that  night,  when 
I  recalled  all  the  sensations  I  had  felt  and  when  I  saw 
again  in  imagination  that  vast  treasure  house,  where, 
according  to  my  estimate,  I  was  leaving  thirty 
millions  in  silver,  twenty  millions  in  gold,  and  many 
millions  in  diamonds,  pearls,  and  rubies,  there  came 
upon  me  something  like  a  fit  of  madness — I  had  the 
gold  fever. 


n6  FACING  CANE 

'  We  arranged  to  be  put  ashore  at  Smyrna,  and  there 
we  at  once  embarked  for  France.  When  we  were  get- 
ting on  board  of  the  French  ship  Heaven  did  me  the 
favour  of  ridding  me  of  my  accomplice.  At  the 
moment  I  did  not  realise  the  full  result  of  this  ill- 
natured  stroke  of  chance,  at  which  I  rejoiced  exceed- 
ingly. We  were  so  utterly  unnerved,  that  we  had  remained 
in  a  half-dazed  condition  without  saying  a  word  to  each 
other,  waiting  till  we  were  in  safety  to  enjoy  ourselves 
as  we  wished.  It  is  not  surprising  that  this  rogue  had 
his  head  a  bit  turned.  You  will  see  later  on  how  God 
punished  me ! 

'  I  did  not  feel  I  was  safe  till  I  had  sold  two-thirds 
of  my  diamonds  in  London  and  Amsterdam,  and 
exchanged  my  gold  dust  for  notes  that  could  be  cashed. 
For  five  years  I  hid  myself  in  Madrid.  Then,  in  1770, 
I  came  to  Paris  under  a  Spanish  name,  and  had  a  most 
brilliant  career  there.  Bianca  had  died.  But  in  the 
midst  of  my  enjoyments,  and  when  I  had  a  fortune  of 
six  million  francs  at  my  command,  I  was  struck  with 
blindness.  I  have  no  doubt  that  this  infirmity  was  the 
result  of  my  stay  in  the  dungeon,  and  of  my  toils 
when  I  burrowed  through  the  stone,  though  perhaps 
my  mania  for  seeing  gold  implied  an  abuse  of  the 
power  of  sight  that  predestined  me  to  the  loss  of  my 
eyes. 

'  At  this  time  I  was  in  love  with  a  woman  to  whom  I 
intended  to  unite  my  lot.  I  had  told  her  the  secret  of 
my  name.  She  belonged  to  a  powerful  family,  and 


FACING  CANE  117 

I  hoped  for  everything  from  the  favour  shown  me  by 
Louis  xv.  I  had  put  my  trust  in  this  woman,  who  was 
the  friend  of  Madame  du  Barry.  She  advised  me 
to  consult  a  famous  oculist  in  London.  But  after  we 
had  stayed  some  months  in  that  city,  the  woman  gave 
me  the  slip  one  day  in  Hyde  Park,  after  having  robbed 
me  of  all  my  fortune,  and  left  me  without  any  resource. 
For  being  obliged  to  conceal  my  real  name,  which 
would  hand  me  over  to  the  vengeance  of  Venice,  I 
could  not  appeal  to  any  one  for  help.  I  was  afraid  of 
Venice.  My  infirmity  was  taken  advantage  of  by  spies 
with  whom  this  woman  had  surrounded  me.  I  spare 
you  the  story  of  adventures  worthy  of  Gil  Bias.  Then 
came  your  Revolution.  I  was  forced  to  become  an 
inmate  of  the  Quinze-Vingts  Hospice,  where  this 
creature  arranged  for  my  admission,  after  having  kept 
me  for  two  years  at  the  Bic£tre  Asylum  as  a  lunatic.  I 
have  never  been  able  to  kill  her,  for  I  could  not  see  to 
do  it,  and  I  was  too  poor  to  hire  another  hand.  If 
before  I  lost  Benedetto  Capri,  my  jailer,  I  had 
questioned  him  as  to  the  position  of  my  dungeon,  I 
might  have  ascertained  exactly  where  the  treasure  lay, 
and  returned  to  Venice  when  the  Republic  was  anni- 
hilated by  Napoleon.  .  .  . 

'However,  notwithstanding  my  blindness,  let  us  go 
back  to  Venice !  I  will  rediscover  the  door  of  the 
prison,  I  shall  see  the  gold  through  its  walls,  I  shall 
smell  it  even  under  waters  beneath  which  it  is  buried. 
For  the  events  that  overthrew  the  power  of  Venice  were 


n8  FACING  CANE 

of  such  a  kind,  that  the  secret  of  this  treasure  must  have 
died  with  Vendramino,  the  brother  of  Bianca,  a  Doge 
who  I  hoped  would  have  made  my  peace  with  the 
Council  of  Ten.  I  wrote  letters  to  the  First  Consul,  I 
proposed  an  arrangement  with  the  Emperor  of  Austria, 
but  every  one  turned  me  away  as  a  madman  !  Come, 
let  us  start  for  Venice,  let  us  start  even  if  we  have  to 
beg  our  way !  We  shall  come  back  millionaires.  We 
will  repurchase  my  property  and  you  shall  be  my  heir. 
You  will  be  Prince  of  Varese  ! ' 

In  my  astonishment  at  these  revelations,  which  in  my 
imagination  assumed  all  the  aspect  of  a  poem,  -and 
looking  at  this  grey  head,  and  the  dark  waters  of  the 
ditches  of  the  Bastille,  stagnant  water  like  that  of  the 
Venetian  canals,  I  made  no  reply.  Facino  Cane  con- 
cluded doubtless  that  I  judged  him  as  all  the  rest  had 
done  with  a  scornful  pity,  and  he  made  a  gesture  that 
expressed  all  the  philosophy  of  despair. 

The  narration  had  perhaps  carried  him  back  to  his 
days  of  happiness  at  Venice.  He  seized  his  clarionet 
and  played  in  a  melancholy  tone  a  Venetian  air,  a 
barcarolle,  and,  as  he  played,  he  regained  the  skill  of  his 
first  years,  the  talent  of  a  patrician  lover.  It  was  some- 
thing like  the  lament  by  the  rivers  of  Babylon.  My 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  If  any  belated  passers-by  came 
along  the  Boulevard  Bourdon,  they  must  have  paused 
to  listen  to  this  last  prayer  of  the  banished  man,  this 
last  lament  for  a  lost  name,  in  which  was  mingled  the 
recollection  of  Bianca.  But  gold  soon  reasserted  its 


FACING  CANE  119 

mastery,  and  the  fatal  passion  extinguished  this  gleam 
of  youth. 

'  That  treasure  ! '  he  said  to  me,  '  I  always  see  it,  as 
in  a  waking  dream.  I  walk  about  in  the  midst  of  it. 
The  diamonds  sparkle,  and  I  am  not  as  blind  as  you 
think.  The  gold  and  the  diamonds  illuminate  my 
darkness,  the  night  of  the  last  Facino  Cane,  for  my 
title  goes  to  the  Memmi.  Mon  Dieu  I  the  murderer's 
punishment  has  begun  soon  enough  !  Ave  Maria.  .  .  .' 

He  recited  some  prayers  which  I  could  not  hear. 

'  We  shall  go  to  Venice ! '  I  said  to  him,  when  he 
rose. 

'  I  have  found  a  man,  then  ! '  he  exclaimed,  and  his 
face  lighted  up. 

I  gave  him  my  arm  and  took  him  home.  At  the 
door  of  the  Quinze-Vingts  he  grasped  my  hand,  while 
some  of  the  guests  from  the  wedding  party  passed  on 
their  way  home  with  deafening  shouts. 

'Shall  we  start  to-morrow? '  said  the  old  man. 

'  As  soon  as  we  have  a  little  money.' 

'  But  we  can  go  on  foot.  I  will  beg  alms.  ...  I  am 
strong,  and  one  feels  young  when  one  sees  gold  in  front 
of  one.' 

Facino  Cane  died  that  winter,  after  two  months  of 
lingering  illness.  The  poor  fellow  had  a  catarrh. 


LA   GRANDE   BRETfeCHE 

A  SHORT  distance  from  Venddme  there  stands  on  the 
banks  of  the  Loire  an  old  house  of  brown  stone,  sur- 
mounted by  high  pitched  roofs.  It  is  so  completely 
isolated  that  there  is  in  its  neighbourhood  neither  the 
evil-smelling  tannery  nor  the  miserable  inn  that  one 
sees  in  the  outskirts  of  most  small  towns.  In  front  of 
the  house,  looking  out  on  the  river,  is  a  garden,  in 
which  the  box  hedges,  formerly  clipped  into  green  walls 
for  its  alleys,  are  now  allowed  to  grow  as  they  will. 
Some  willows  springing  from  the  margin  of  the  Loire 
have  grown  as  rapidly  as  the  boundary  hedges,  and 
half  conceal  the  house.  The  plants  that  we  call  weeds 
adorn  with  their  beautiful  foliage  the  slope  towards  the 
water.  The  fruit-trees,  neglected  for  ten  years,  no 
longer  produce  a  crop,  and  the  suckers  they  have 
thrown  out  have  grown  into  thickets.  The  fruit-trees 
trained  on  the  walls  have  sprouted  into  wild  bushes. 
The  paths  once  bright  with  gravel  are  overgrown  with 
moss ;  but,  to  tell  the  truth,  there  is  no  longer  a  trace  of 
a  path. 

From  the  top  of  the  hill  crowned  by  the  ruins  of  the 
old   castle  of  the  Dukes  of  Vend6me,  the  only  spot 

from  which  the  eye  can  look  down  into  this  enclosure, 
120 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  121 

one  says  to  oneself  that  at  a  date,  now  difficult  to  fix, 
this  little  corner  of  the  earth  must  have  been  the  delight 
of  some  man  of  good  position  who  busied  himself  with 
roses,  with  tulips,  in  a  word,  with  horticulture,  but  who 
was  at  the  same  time  a  gourmand  in  the  matter  of 
choice  fruit.  One  can  make  out  an  arched  alley  way, 
or  rather  the  remains  of  it,  and  under  it  there  is  a  table 
not  entirely  eaten  away  by  time.  At  the  sight  of  this 
ruined  garden  one  pictures  to  oneself  the  passive  de- 
lights of  the  quiet  life  enjoyed  in  the  provinces,  just  as 
one  imagines  the  humdrum  existence  of  some  honest 
shopkeeper  as  one  reads  the  epitaph  on  his  tomb.  As 
if  suggesting  a  final  touch  to  the  peaceful  and  pathetic 
fancies  that  take  possession  of  one's  mind,  one  of  the 
walls  shows  a  sundial  adorned  with  this  respectably 
pious  inscription — '  Ultimum  cogita  ! ' 

The  roofs  of  the  house  are  in  a  terrible  state  of 
collapse  ;  the  shutters  are  always  closed ;  the  balconies 
are  covered  with  swallows'  nests  ;  the  doors  remain  con- 
tinually shut.  Tall  grasses  mark  out  in  green  lines  the 
joints  of  the  door-steps.  The  iron  work  is  rust-eaten. 
Sun,  moon,  winter,  summer  and  snow  have  worn  away 
the  woodwork,  warped  the  boarding,  ruined  the  paint- 
work. 

The  mournful  silence  that  broods  over  it  all  is  dis- 
turbed only  by  the  birds,  the  cats,  the  weasels,  the  rats 
and  mice  that  are  free  to  run  about,  fight,  and  eat  each 
other.  Everywhere  an  unseen  hand  has  written  the 
word  '  Mystery.'  If,  moved  by  curiosity,  you  go  and 


i22  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

take  a  look  at  the  house  from  the  road,  you  see  a  large 
entrance  gate,  arched  at  the  top,  in  the  doors  of  which 
the  children  of  the  countryside  have  knocked  several 
holes.  Later  on  I  found  out  that  this  entrance  had 
been  closed  for  some  ten  years.  Through  these  irregu- 
lar openings  in  it  you  can  make  out  that  the  court- 
yard in  front  of  the  house  is  in  just  the  same  condition 
as  the  garden  on  its  river  front.  The  same  disorder 
prevails  there.  Tufts  of  grass  frame  the  flags  of  the 
pavement.  The  walls  are  furrowed  with  great  cracks, 
and  their  blackened  ridges  are  a  tangle  of  thousands  of 
clumps  of  wallflowers.  The  steps  at  the  door  are  dis- 
jointed, the  cord  of  the  bell  is  rotten,  the  rain  pipes  are 
broken.  '  Has  the  fire  of  heaven  fallen  upon  the  place  ? 
What  tribunal  has  ordered  salt  to  be  sown  upon  this 
habitation  ?  Has  God  been  insulted  here  ?  or  France 
betrayed?'  These  are  the  questions  that  come  into 
one's  mind.  The  reptiles  that  come  crawling  by  give 
no  answer.  This  empty  and  deserted  house  presents  a 
huge  enigma,  of  which  no  one  knows  the  solution. 

It  was  formerly  the  centre  of  a  small  feudal  holding, 
and  bears  the  name  of  La  Grande  Breteche.  During 
the  time  of  my  stay  at  Vendome,  where  Dr.  Desplein 
had  sent  me  to  take  care  of  a  rich  patient,  the  sight  of 
this  strange  abode  became  for  me  a  source  of  the 
keenest  pleasure.  Was  it  not  much  better  than  a  mere 
ruin  ?  A  ruin  has  connected  with  it  certain  memories, 
about  the  authenticity  of  which  there  is  no  doubt.  But 
this  dwelling  place,  still  standing  though  it  was  being 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  123 

slowly  demolished  by  some  avenging  hand,  held  a  secret, 
some  unknown  idea.  At  the  very  least  it  suggested 
some  strange  caprice.  More  than  once,  in  the  evenings, 
I  pressed  my  way  through  the  hedge — now  run  wild 
— that  enclosed  its  grounds.  Braving  a  few  scratches  I 
forced  an  entrance  into  this  ownerless  garden,  this  estate 
that  was  no  longer  either  public  or  private.  I  remained 
there  whole  hours  considering  its  disordered  condition. 
I  did  not  care  to  put  even  one  question  to  some  talka- 
tive citizen  of  Vendome  for  the  sake  of  learning  the 
story  of  the  origin  of  this  singular  spectacle.  But  there 
I  composed  delightful  romances,  I  abandoned  myself  to 
little  bouts  of  melancholy  thought  that  charmed  me. 
If  I  had  known  the  reason — perhaps  a  commonplace 
one — for  this  desolation,  I  would  have  lost  all  the  un- 
written poetry  in  which  I  took  such  wild  delight. 

To  my  mind  this  place  of  refuge  brought  up  the  most 
diverse  pictures  of  human  life,  darkened  by  misfortune. 
Now  it  had  for  me  the  air  of  a  cloister  without  its 
monks ;  now  it  told  of  the  peace  of  a  cemetery,  without 
the  dead  speaking  to  one  in  the  language  of  their  epitaphs. 
To-day  it  would  be  the  house  of  a  leper ;  to-morrow 
that  of  the  Atridse.  But  all  the  while  it  was  provincial 
France  with  its  homely  ideas,  its  life  running  quietly 
like  an  hour-glass.  I  often  wept  there;  I  never  laughed. 
More  than  once  I  felt  an  involuntary  terror  as  I  heard 
above  my  head  the  deep  rushing  sound  of  the  wings  of 
some  startled  ring-dove. 

The  soil  there  is  damp.     One  must  be  on  the  look- 

K 


i24  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

out  for  the  lizards,  the  vipers,  the  frogs  that  move  about 
in  all  the  wild  freedom  of  nature.  Above  all  one  must 
not  be  afraid  of  cold,  for  at  times  you  feel  as  if  a  mantle  of 
ice  were  placed  upon  your  shoulders,  like  the  death  cold 
hand  of  the  Commandant  on  the  neck  of  Don  Juan. 
One  evening  there  I  fairly  shuddered.  Just  as  I  had 
finished  thinking  out  a  sombre  enough  story  as  an  ex- 
planation of  this  kind  of  wretchedness  built  up  in  stone, 
the  wind  set  in  motion  a  rusty  old  weathercock,  and  its 
creaking  sound  was  like  a  wailing  cry  from  the  house  itself. 
I  went  back  to  my  inn,  a  prey  to  gloomy  thoughts. 

After  I  had  had  my  supper,  my  hostess  entered  my 
room  with  an  air  of  mystery,  and  said  to  me : — 

'  Sir,  Monsieur  Regnault  is  here.' 

'  Who  is  Monsieur  Regnault  ? ' 

1  What !  Monsieur  does  not  know  Monsieur  Regnault ! 
well,  that 's  odd  ! '  she  said  as  she  went  out. 

Suddenly  I  saw  entering  the  room  a  tall,  slightly  built 
man  dressed  in  black  and  holding  his  hat  in  his  hand. 
He  came  in  with  his  head  bent  forward  like  a  ram 
ready  to  charge  its  rival,  and  presented  to  me  a  retreat- 
ing forehead,  a  little  pointed  head,  and  a  pale  face  with 
a  complexion  like  a  glass  of  dirty  water.  You  might 
have  taken  him  for  the  door-keeper  at  one  of  the  minis- 
tries in  Paris.  The  stranger  wore  an  old  coat,  showing 
a  good  deal  of  wear  in  its  creases,  but  he  had  a  diamond 
in  his  shirt -frill  and  gold  earrings  in  his  ears. 

1  Whom  have  I  the  honour  of  addressing,  sir  ? '  said 
I  to  him. 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  125 

He  took  his  seat  on  a  chair,  turned  to  the  fire,  placed 
his  hat  on  my  table  and  replied  to  me,  rubbing  his 
hands : — 

'Ah  !  it's  very  cold.     I  am  Monsieur  Regnault,  sir.' 
I  bowed,  saying  to  myself,  '//  Bondocani !  look  out ! ' 
'  I  am,'  he  went  on,  '  a  notary  at  Vendome.' 
'  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,  sir ! '  I  exclaimed,  '  but  I 
am   not   in  a  position  to  make  my  will  just  now  for 
reasons  well  known  to  myself.' 

'  Just  a  moment ! '  he  began  again,  raising  his  hand 
as  if  to  impose  silence.     '  Allow  me,  sir,  allow  me  !     I 
have  been  informed  that  you  sometimes  go  and  take  a 
walk  in  the  garden  of  La  Grande  Breteche.' 
'Yes,  sir.' 

'Just  a  moment,'  he  said,  repeating  his  gesture. 
'  This  action  on  your  part  amounts  to  a  real  breach  of 
the  law.  I  have  come,  sir,  in  the  name  and  as  executor 
of  the  late  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Merret,  to  request 
that  you  will  cease  your  visits.  Just  a  moment !  I  am 
not  a  Turk,  and  I  don't  want  to  make  your  conduct 
into  a  crime.  Besides,  you  may  very  well  be  ignorant 
of  the  circumstances  which  oblige  me  to  allow  the 
finest  residence  in  Venddme  to  go  to  ruin.  Neverthe- 
less, sir,  you  appear  to  be  an  educated  man,  and  you 
ought  to  be  aware  that  the  laws  forbid  any  one  to  tres- 
pass on  enclosed  property,  and  this  under  serious  penal- 
ties. A  hedge  counts  for  as  much  as  a  wall.  But  the 
state  in  which  the  house  is  may  serve  as  an  excuse  for 
your  curiosity.  Personally  I  should  be  quite  satisfied 


126  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

to  leave  you  free  to  come  and  go  about  that  house ;  but 
having  been  entrusted  with  the  execution  of  the  will  of  the 
testatrix,  I  have  the  honour,  sir,  to  request  that  you  will 
not  again  enter  the  garden.  Since  the  will  was  opened, 
sir,  I  myself  have  not  set  foot  in  that  house,  which,  as 
I  have  had  the  honour  to  tell  you,  forms  part  of  the 
property  left  by  Madame  de  Merret.  We  have  merely 
taken  note  of  the  number  of  its  doors  and  windows,  in 
order  to  assess  the  amount  of  the  taxes  which  I  pay, 
provided  annually  out  of  funds  for  this  purpose  by  the 
late  Countess.  Ah  !  my  dear  sir,  her  will  made  a  great 
stir  in  Vendome.' 

Here  the  worthy  man  stopped  to  blow  his  nose.  I 
listened  respectfully  to  his  loquacity,  for  I  could 
thoroughly  well  realise  that  the  administration  of  the 
will  of  Madame  de  Merret  was  the  most  important 
event  of  his  life,  the  summit  of  his  reputation,  his  glory, 
all  that  the  Restoration  was  for  a  good  Royalist.  I 
must  say  good-bye  to  my  delightful  reveries  and 
romances.  So  I  had  no  reluctance  to  give  myself  the 
pleasure  of  learning  the  truth  in  an  official  way. 

'Sir,'  I  said  to  him,  'would  it  be  an  indiscretion 
on  my  part  to  ask  you  the  reason  for  this  eccentric 
arrangement  ? ' 

At  these  words  there  came  over  the  face  of  the 
notary  a  look  that  expressed  all  the  pleasure,  which 
men  feel  who  have  the  habit  of  mounting  their  hobby. 
He  pulled  up  the  collar  of  his  shirt  with  a  touch  of 
foppery,  took  out  his  snuff-box,  opened  it,  and  offered 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  127 

me  a  pinch ;  and  on  my  refusing  it  he  took  a  big  one 
himself.  He  was  happy !  A  man  who  has  not  a  hobby 
does  not  know  all  the  joy  one  can  get  in  life.  A  hobby 
is  the  golden  mean  between  a  passion  and  a  mono- 
mania. At  that  moment  I  understood  the  full  force 
of  this  fine  expression  of  Sterne's,  and  I  fully  realised 
the  joy  with  which  Uncle  Toby,  aided  by  Corporal 
Trim,  set  himself  astride  of  his  charger. 

'  Sir,'  said  Monsieur  Regnault  to  me,  '  I  was  the  chief 
clerk  of  Maitre  Roguin  of  Paris,  a  first-class  office,  which 
you  have  doubtless  heard  spoken  of?  No?  However, 
an  unfortunate  bankruptcy  made  it  famous.  As  I  had 
not  a  sufficent  fortune  to  carry  on  business  in  Paris  with 
prices  at  the  level  everything  went  up  to  in  1816, 
I  came  here  and  bought  the  practice  of  my  predecessor. 
I  had  some  relations  in  Vendome,  amongst  others  a 
very  rich  aunt,  who  gave  me  her  daughter  in  marriage. 
.  .  .  Well,  sir,'  he  continued,  after  a  slight  pause,  'three 
months  after  having  been  admitted  to  my  profession 
here  by  Monseigneur,  the  keeper  of  the  seals,  one  night, 
just  as  I  was  going  to  bed — I  was  not  yet  married  then 
— I  was  summoned  by  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Merret 
to  her  chateau  of  Merret.  Her  lady's  maid,  an 
excellent  young  woman  who  is  now  employed  in  this 
very  hotel,  was  at  my  door  with  the  Countess's  carriage. 
Ah  !  just  a  moment !  .  .  .  I  must  tell  you,  sir,  that,  two 
months  before  I  arrived  here,  Monsieur  le  Comte  de 
Merret  had  gone  away  to  die  in  Paris.  He  came  to 
a  wretched  end  there,  while  he  was  abandoning  himself 


128  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

to  all  kinds  of  excesses.  You  understand?  On  the 
day  of  his  departure  Madame  la  Comtesse  had  left  La 
Grande  Breteche  and  sent  away  all  the  furniture  of  the 
house.  Some  persons  even  allege  that  she  burned  all 
the  furniture,  the  hangings,  finally  all  the  things  in 
general  of  whatsoever  kind,  which  furnish  the  premises 
at  present  leased  by  the  said  person.  .  .  .  Why,  what 
am  I  saying?  Excuse  me,  I  thought  I  was  dictating 
a  lease  .  .  .  that  she  burned  them,'  he  continued,  '  in 
the  meadow  at  Merret.  Have  you  been  to  Merret, 
sir?  No?'  he  said,  replying  for  me  to  his  own 
question.  '  Ah,  it  is  a  very  pretty  place !  For  about 
three  months,'  said  he,  continuing  his  story  after  giving 
a  little  shake  of  his  head,  Monsieur  le  Comte  and 
Madame  la  Comtesse  had  been  living  in  a  singular 
fashion.  They  no  longer  received  any  guests.  Madame 
had  her  rooms  on  the  ground  floor,  and  Monsieur  his 
on  the  first  story.  When  Madame  la  Comtesse  was 
left  alone  she  never  again  showed  herself  in  the  church. 
Later  on,  when  she  had  taken  up  her  residence  at  the 
chateau,  she  refused  to  see  her  friends — even  her  lady 
friends — who  came  to  visit  her.  She  was  already 
greatly  changed  at  the  time  when  she  left  La  Grande 
Breteche  to  go  to  Merret.  This  dear  lady  (I  say  dear 
because  this  diamond  came  to  me  from  her,  though  for 
that  matter  I  never  saw  her  but  once)  .  .  .  well,  this 
good  woman  was  very  ill.  No  doubt  she  had  given  up 
all  hope  of  recovery,  for  she  died  without  once  express- 
ing a  wish  to  see  a  doctor :  that  is  why  many  of  our 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  129 

ladies  here  thought  she  was  not  quite  right  in  her 
head. 

'Well  then,  sir,  my  curiosity  was  strangely  excited 
when  I  heard  that  Madame  de  Merret  required  my 
professional  services.  I  was  not  the  only  one  who  took 
an  interest  in  this  affair.  That  very  evening,  late  as  it 
was,  all  the  town  got  to  know  that  I  was  going  to 
Merret.  The  lady's  maid  gave  rather  vague  answers  to 
the  questions  I  put  to  her  on  the  way.  However,  she 
told  me  that  her  mistress  had  received  the  last  rites  of 
the  Church  from  the  Curd  of  Merret  during  the  day, 
and  that  it  looked  as  if  she  would  not  live  through  the 
night.  I  reached  the  chateau  about  eleven  o'clock. 
I  went  up  the  great  staircase.  After  having  passed 
through  some  large  rooms,  lofty  and  dark  and  devilishly 
cold  and  damp  they  were,  I  reached  at  last  the  state 
bedroom,  where  Madame  la  Comtesse  was. 

'  Considering  what  gossip  was  current  about  this  lady 
— I  would  never  get  to  the  end  of  it,  sir,  if  I  were  to  tell 
you  all  the  stories  that  were  repeated  about  her — I 
pictured  her  to  myself  as  something  of  a  coquette. 
Just  imagine,  I  had  a  lot  of  difficulty  to  see  where  she 
was  in  the  great  bed  in  which  she  lay.  It  is  true  that 
there  was  only  one  old-fashioned  Argand  lamp  to  light 
this  enormous  room  with,  its  decorative  carvings  in  the 
style  of  the  ancient  regime;  so  covered  with  dust  that 
it  almost  made  one  sneeze  to  look  at  them.  Ah,  but 
you  have  never  been  to  Merret !  Well,  sir,  the  bed  was 
one  of  those  old  four-posters,  with  a  tester  hung  with 


130  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

flowered  chintz.  A  little  table  was  near  the  bed,  and 
I  saw  on  it  an  Imitation  of  Christ,  which  by  the  way 
I  bought  for  my  wife  at  the  sale,  as  well  as  the  lamp. 
There  was  also  a  big  armchair  for  her  waiting  woman, 
and  two  other  chairs.  No  fire  by  the  way.  That  was 
all  the  furniture.  It  would  not  have  taken  up  two 
lines  in  a  catalogue.  Ah,  my  dear  sir,  if  you  had  seen, 
as  I  then  saw  it,  that  huge  room  hung  with  brown 
curtains,  you  really  would  have  thought  you  had  been 
transported  to  some  scene  in  a  novel.  It  was  chilling, 
nay,  more  than  that,  'funereal'  he  added,  raising  his 
hand  with  a  theatrical  gesture,  and  making  a  pause. 

'  By  dint  of  looking  hard  and  coming  close  up  to  the 
bed,  at  last  I  saw  Madame  de  Merret  by  the  light  of  the 
lamp,  the  rays  of  which  shone  upon  the  pillows.  x  Her 
face  was  as  yellow  as  wax,  and  so  wrinkled,  it  looked 
like  a  pair  of  hands  held  close  together.  Madame  la 
Comtesse  wore  a  lace  night-cap,  that  let  one  see  her 
beautiful  hair  falling  from  under  it,  but  it  was  white  as 
snow.  She  was  sitting  up  in  the  bed  and  seemed  to 
keep  that  position  with  much  difficulty.  Her  large 
black  eyes,  sunken  with  the  fever  no  doubt,  and  nearly 
dead,  hardly  stirred  under  the  eyelashes,  in  their  bony 
sockets.  There,'  he  said,  pointing  to  the  arch  of  his 
own  eyebrows,  'her  forehead  was  damp.  Her  wasted 
hands  were  like  bones  covered  with  skin,  tightly 
stretched;  one  could  easily  see  the  lines  of  her 
veins  and  muscles.  She  must  have  once  been  very 
beautiful ;  but  at  that  moment  I  was  seized  by  a  feeling 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  131 

I  cannot  describe,  as  I  looked  at  her.  According  to 
what  I  was  told  by  those  who  buried  her,  a  living 
creature  never  was  more  wasted  away  before  death.  In 
one  word,  it  was  something  frightful  to  see !  Her 
malady  had  so  worn  away  this  woman,  that  she  was  just 
like  a  ghost.  Her  lips,  of  a  pale  violet  tint,  seemed  to 
me  to  be  motionless,  even  when  she  spoke.  Although 
my  profession  had  made  me  used  to  such  sights,  as  it 
brings  me  from  time  to  time  to  the  bedside  of  dying 
people  to  put  their  last  wishes  on  record,  I  confess  that 
families  in  tears  and  men  in  their  death-agony  were  all 
nothing  compared  to  that  lonely,  silent  woman  in  the 
midst  of  that  immense  chateau. 

'  I  did  not  hear  the  least  sound,  I  could  not  distin- 
guish the  movement  that  the  respiration  of  the  sick 
woman  ought  to  have  caused  in  the  bedclothes  that 
covered  her,  and  I  myself  stood  motionless  in  a  kind  of 
stupor.  I  can  fancy  myself  there  now.  At  last  her 
large  eyes  moved,  she  tried  to  raise  her  right  hand, 
which  fell  back  on  the  bed,  and  these  words  came  from 
her  lips  like  a  dull  murmur,  for  her  voice  was  no  longer 
like  human  speech ;  "  I  have  been  expecting  you  very 
impatiently."  A  flush  of  colour  came  on  her  cheeks. 
It  was  an  effort,  sir,  for  her  to  speak. 

' "  Madame  ..."  I  said  to  her.  She  made  a  sign 
for  me  to  be  silent.  At  this  moment  the  old  woman 
who  was  taking  care  of  her  rose  and  whispered  in  my 
ear,  "Do  not  speak,  Madame  la  Comtesse  has  gone 
beyond  the  stage  at  which  she  can  hear  even  the  least 


132  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

sound,  and  if  you  could  speak  to  her,  it  would  only 
disturb  her." 

'  I  sat  down.  A  few  moments  later  Madame  de 
Merret  collected  all  the  strength  that  was  left  to  her, 
and  moved  her  right  arm.  She  put  her  hand,  not 
without  endless  efforts,  under  the  bolster.  She  paused 
just  for  a  moment.  She  made  a  last  effort  to  withdraw 
her  hand,  and  as  she  held  out  a  sealed  paper,  drops  of 
sweat  fell  from  her  forehead.  "  I  entrust  my  last  will  to 
you  ..."  she  said.  "  Ah,  mon  Dieu,  ah  !  "  This  was 
all.  She  grasped  a  crucifix  that  lay  on  the  bed,  raised 
it  quickly  to  her  lips,  and  died. 

'  The  expression  of  her  rigidly  fixed  eyes  makes  me 
shudder  when  I  think  of  it.  She  must  have  suffered  a 
great  deal !  There  was  joy  in  her  last  look,  and  the 
expression  remained  fixed  in  her  dead  eyes. 

'  I  took  away  the  will,  and  when  it  was  opened  I 
found  that  Madame  de  Merret  had  made  me  her  legal 
executor.  With  the  exception  of  some  private  legacies 
she  left  the  whole  of  her  property  to  the  hospital  of 
Vendome.  But  listen  to  her  arrangements  with  regard 
to  La  Grande  Breteche.  She  enjoined  me  to  leave  this 
house,  for  the  term  of  fifty  years  from  the  day  of  her 
death,  in  the  state  in  which  it  actually  was  at  the 
moment  of  her  decease.  I  was  to  prevent  any 
person  whatsoever  from  entering  its  rooms,  and  she 
forbade  the  slightest  repairs  to  be  made  to  it,  and  even 
provided  an  annual  allowance,  so  that  if  necessary 
watchmen  should  be  engaged  to  enforce  the  complete 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  133 

fulfilment  of  these  her  last  wishes.  At  the  expiration 
of  the  assigned  period,  if  the  intentions  of  the  testatrix 
had  been  fulfilled,  the  house  was  to  belong  to  my  heirs, 
for,  as  Monsieur  knows,  notaries  themselves  cannot 
accept  legacies.  Otherwise  La  Grande  Breteche  was  to 
become  the  property  of  any  one  who  could  establish  a 
claim  to  it,  but  under  the  condition  that  they  should 
observe  certain  provisions  set  forth  in  a  codicil  attached 
to  the  will,  which  codicil  is  not  to  be  opened  before  the 
expiration  of  the  aforesaid  fifty  years.  The  will  was  not 
contested  by  any  one,  therefore  .  .  . ' 

With  this  word,  and  without  finishing  the  sentence, 
the  lanky  notary  looked  at  me  with  an  air  of  triumph. 
I  made  him  quite  happy  by  addressing  a  few  words  of 
compliment  to  him. 

'  Sir,'  I  said,  '  you  have  made  such  a  strong  impression 
on  me  that  I  can  imagine  I  am  looking  at  this  dying 
woman,  paler  than  the  sheets  of  the  bed ;  her  glistening 
eyes  are  a  terror  to  me.  I  shall  dream  of  her  to-night. 
But  you  must  have  made  some  conjectures  regarding 
the  provisions  set  forth  in  this  singular  will.' 

'  Sir,'  he  answered  me,  with  an  amusing  air  of  discreet 
reserve,  '  I  never  allow  myself  to  sit  in  judgment  on  the 
conduct  of  persons  who  honour  me  with  the  gift  of  a 
diamond.' 

I  soon  loosened  the  tongue  of  this  scrupulous  notary, 
and  he  then  communicated  to  me — not  without  long 
digressions — the  conclusions  arrived  at  by  the  wiseacres 
of  both  sexes  whose  judgments  have  the  force  of  law 


134  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

at  Vendome  But  these  conclusions  were  so  contra- 
dictory, and  so  long  winded,  that  I  had  some  difficulty 
in  keeping  myself  awake,  notwithstanding  the  interest  I 
took  in  this  authoritative  account  of  the  affair.  The 
dull  tone,  and  the  monotonous  voice  of  the  notary,  who 
was  no  doubt  well  used  to  hear  himself  talk  and  to 
make  his  clients  and  fellow  townsmen  listen  to  him,  at 
length  had  the  better  even  of  my  curiosity.  .  .  .  Happily 
at  last  he  left  me. 

'  Ah  !  ah  !  sir,'  he  said  to  me  on  the  stairs,  '  there  are 
many  people  that  would  like  to  live  another  forty-five 
years ;  but,  just  a  moment !  .  .  . ' 

And  with  a  knowing  air  he  put  the  first  finger  of  his 
hand  to  the  side  of  his  nose,  as  if  he  meant  to  say, 
'  Pay  strict  attention  to  this  ! ' 

'  But  to  go  so  far  as  that,'  he  added,  '  one  must  not 
be  in  the  sixties  ! ' 

I  closed  my  door  after  having  been  roused  from  my 
apathy  by  this  last  sally,  which  the  notary  evidently 
thought  very  witty.  Then  I  seated  myself  in  my  arm- 
chair, putting  my  feet  on  the  two  fire-dogs  before  the 
grate.  I  was  plunging  into  a  romance  of  the  gloomy 
old  style  of  Mrs.  Radcliffe,  when  my  door,  pushed  open 
by  the  light  touch  of  a  woman's  hand,  turned  on  its 
hinges.  I  saw  my  hostess  coming  in,  a  stout,  smiling, 
good-humoured  woman,  who  had  missed  her  vocation ; 
she  was  of  the  type  of  a  Fleming,  and  ought  to  have 
figured  in  some  picture  of  Teniers. 

'  Well,   sir,'    she  said  to   me,   '  no  doubt   Monsieur 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  135 

Regnault  has  been  spinning  out  his  long  story  of  La 
Grande  Breteche  to  you  ? ' 

'Yes,  mother  Lepas. 

'  What  has  he  told  you  ? ' 

I  repeated  to  her  in  a  few  words  the  gloomy,  blood- 
curdling story  of  Madame  de  Merret.  At  each  sentence 
my  hostess  stretched  out  her  neck  and  looked  at  me 
with  the  keen  insight  of  an  innkeeper,  a  kind  of  average 
between  the  instinct  of  a  gendarme,  the  cunning  of  a 
spy,  and  the  trickery  of  a  dealer. 

4 My  dear  Madame  Lepas,'  I  added  as  I  ended,  'you 
seem  to  know  something  more,  eh  ?  Otherwise,  why 
should  you  come  here  to  me  ?  ' 

4  Ah  !  on  the  good  faith  of  an  honest  woman,  as  sure 
as  my  name  is  Lepas  .  .  . ' 

4  Now  don't  swear.  Your  eyes  are  big  with  a  secret. 
You  knew  Monsieur  de  Merret.  What  kind  of  a  man 
was  he  ? ' 

'  Law !  Monsieur  de  Merret,  you  see,  was  a  fine 
figure  of  a  man,  so  tall  that  it  was  a  long  job  to  look  at 
him  from  head  to  foot !  a  worthy  gentleman,  who  came 
from  Picardy,  and  who  was,  as  we  say  here,  a  bit  touchy. 
He  used  to  pay  cash  down,  so  as  never  to  have  disputes 
with  any  one.  He  was  a  lively  fellow,  you  see.  Our 
ladies  all  thought  him  very  amiable.' 

4  Because  he  was  so  lively  ? '  said  I  to  my  hostess. 

'Very  likely,' she  said.  4 You  may  well  believe,  sir, 
that  as  they  say,  one  had  to  have  good  prospects  in  the 
world  to  marry  Madame  de  Merret,  who,  without  wish- 


136  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

ing  to  say  any  ill  of  others,  was  the  most  beautiful  and 
the  richest  lady  round  about  Vendome.  She  had  an 
income  of  twenty  thousand  livres  from  property  in  this 
neighbourhood.  All  the  town  went  to  her  marriage. 
The  bride  was  a  dainty,  winning  little  thing,  a  real  jewel  of 
a  woman  !  Ah !  they  made  a  handsome  couple  that  day  ! ' 

'  Were  they  happy  in  their  married  life  ? ' 

'  Hum  !  hum  !  yes  and  no,  so  far  as  one  could  make 
out.  For,  as  you  can  imagine,  people  of  our  class  were 
not  hand  and  glove  with  them  !  Madame  de  Merret  was 
a  good  woman,  very  elegant,  who  perhaps  after  all  had 
sometimes  to  suffer  from  the  vivacity  of  her  husband ; 
and  though  he  was  a  little  proud,  we  liked  him.  Bah, 
it  was  the  nature  of  his  class  to  be  like  that !  When 
one  is  a  noble,  you  see  .  .  .' 

'However,  there  must  of  course  have  been  a  cata- 
strophe of  some  kind  to  cause  this  violent  separation 
between  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Merret  ? ' 

'  I  never  said  there  was  any  catastrophe,  sir.  I  know 
nothing  about  it.' 

'Well,  I  feel  quite  sure  now  that  you  know  every- 
thing.' 

'  Well,  sir,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  everything.  When 
I  saw  Monsieur  Regnault  going  up  to  your  room,  I  quite 
made  up  my  mind  that  he  would  talk  to  you  about 
Madame  de  Merret  in  connection  with  La  Grande 
Breteche.  That  gave  me  the  idea  of  asking  your  advice, 
sir,  for  I  take  you  to  be  a  man  of  good  counsel,  who 
would  be  incapable  of  misleading  a  poor  woman  like  me, 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  137 

who  has  never  done  any  one  the  least  harm,  though  all 
the  same  I  am  troubled  by  my  conscience.  Till  this 
moment  I  have  never  dared  to  open  my  mind  to  the 
people  of  this  neighbourhood  here,  who  are  all  gossips 
with  biting  tongues.  And  then,  sir,  I  have  never  had  a 
visitor  who  remained  so  long  in  my  hotel,  and  to  whom 
I  could  venture  to  tell  the  story  of  the  fifteen  thou- 
sand francs.  ..." 

'  My  dear  Madame  Lepas,'  I  replied,  stopping  the  flow 
of  her  words,  '  if  your  confidences  are  of  a  kind  to  com- 
promise me,  I  would  not  for  all  the  world  be  entrusted 
with  them.' 

'You  have  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,'  she  said  interrupt- 
ing me,  '  as  you  will  see.' 

Her  eagerness  made  me  think  that  I  was  not  the  only 
one  to  whom  my  good  hostess  had  imparted  the  secret 
of  which  I  was  supposed  to  be  the  sole  depositary,  and 
I  listened. 

'  At  the  time,  sir,'  she  said,  '  when  the  Emperor  used 
to  send  here  prisoners  of  war  from  Spain  and  elsewhere, 
I  had  to  find  lodgings,  at  the  expense  of  the  Govern- 
ment, for  a  young  Spaniard  who  had  been  sent  to 
Venddme  on  parole.  Though  he  had  given  his  parole 
he  had  to  go  every  day  and  report  himself  to  the  sub- 
prefect.  He  was  a  grandee  of  Spain !  Excuse  me  a 
moment — he  had  a  name  ending  in  os  and  dia,  some- 
thing like  Bagos  de  FeVedia.  I  have  his  name  noted 
somewhere  in  my  list  of  visitors.  You  can  read  it  there 
if  you  like.  Oh,  he  was  a  fine  young  man  for  a 


138  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

Spaniard,  who  they  say  are  all  ugly  !  He  was  barely  five 
feet  two  or  three  inches  high,  but  he  was  very  well 
made.  He  had  little  hands  that  he  took  such  care  of. 
Ah !  you  should  have  seen,  he  had  as  many  brushes 
for  his  hands  as  a  woman  has  for  her  whole  toilet !  He 
had  long  black  hair,  an  eye  of  fire,  rather  a  bronzed 
complexion,  but  I  liked  it  all  the  same.  He  had  such 
fine  linen  as  I  have  never  seen  on  any  one  else,  though 
I  have  had  princesses  here,  and  amongst  other  guests 
General  Bertrand,  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Abrantes, 
Monsieur  Descazes  and  the  King  of  Spain.  He  did 
not  eat  much,  but  one  could  not  find  fault  with  him  for 
that,  he  had  such  polished,  such  winning  manners. 
Oh  !  I  was  very  fond  of  him,  though  he  would  not  say 
four  words  in  the  course  of  a  day,  and  it  was  impossible 
to  have  the  slightest  conversation  with  him.  If  one 
spoke  to  him  he  would  not  reply.  It  is  an  oddity,  a 
mania  they  all  have,  by  what  I  am  told.  He  read  his 
breviary  like  a  priest,  he  went  to  mass  and  to  all  the 
services.  And  where  did  he  chose  his  place?  We  all 
remarked  it  later  on — two  steps  from  the  pew  of 
Madame  de  Merret.  But  as  he  knelt  there  the  very 
first  time  he  went  to  the  church,  no  one  imagined  that 
there  was  any  particular  object  in  it.  Besides  he  never 
raised  his  nose  from  his  prayer-book,  the  poor  young 
man !  Then,  sir,  in  the  evening  he  would  walk  about  on 
the  hill  among  the  ruins  of  the  castle.  It  was  his  only 
amusement,  poor  fellow,  it  reminded  him  of  his  own 
country.  They  say  Spain  is  all  hills  ! 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  139 

'  From  the  first  days  of  his  detention  here  he  kept 
late  hours.  I  was  anxious  at  seeing  that  he  did  not 
come  home  till  the  stroke  of  midnight.  But  we  got 
used  to  this  fancy  of  his ;  he  took  the  door  key  with 
him  and  we  ceased  to  sit  up  for  him.  He  lodged  in  the 
house  that  we  had  in  the  Rue  des  Casernes.  Then  one 
of  our  stablemen  told  us  that  one  evening  when  he  took 
the  horses  down  to  the  Loire  to  walk  them  in  the  water 
he  thought  he  saw  the  Spanish  grandee  swimming  far 
off  in  the  river — swimming  like  a  fish.  When  he  came 
home  I  told  him  to  take  care  not  to  get  entangled  in 
the  water  weeds,  and  he  seemed  annoyed  at  having 
been  seen  in  the  water.  At  last  sir,  one  day,  or  rather 
one  morning,  we  found  that  he  was  not  in  his  room. 
He  had  not  come  home.  By  dint  of  searching  every- 
where I  found  a  piece  of  writing  in  the  drawer  of  his 
table,  in  which  there  were  fifty  Spanish  pieces  of  gold,  of 
the  kind  they  call  "  Moidores,"  and  which  would  be  worth 
about  five  thousand  francs,  and,  besides  these,  diamonds 
to  the  value  of  ten  thousand  francs  in  a  little  sealed  box. 
The  writing  said  that,  in  case  he  did  not  return,  he 
left  us  this  money  and  these  diamonds  on  condition 
that  we  would  have  masses  said  to  thank  God  for  his 
escape  from  captivity,  and  to  pray  for  his  salvation. 

'  At  that  time  I  had  still  my  husband,  and  he  went  to 
look  for  him.  And  now  comes  a  singular  incident. 
He  brought  back  some  of  the  Spaniard's  clothes,  which 
he  had  found  under  a  big  stone  among  some  stakes  on 
the  river  bank,  in  the  direction  of  the  castle  and  nearly 

L 


140  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

opposite  La  Grande  Breteche.  My  husband  had  gone 
out  there  so  early  in  the  morning  that  no  one  saw  him. 
He  burned  the  clothes,  after  having  read  the  letter,  and, 
according  to  Count  Feredia's  wish,  we  declared  tha.t  he 
had  made  his  escape.  The  sub-prefect  sent  all  the 
gendarmerie  off  after  him ;  but,  whew !  he  was  never 
caught.  Lepas  thought  he  must  have  been  drowned. 
But  as  for  me,  sir,  I  don't  believe  it ;  I  rather  think  that 
he  had  something  to  do  with  the  affair  of  Madame  de 
Merret,  because  Rosalie  told  me  that  the  crucifix, 
by  which  her  mistress  set  so  much  value  that  she  had  it 
buried  with  her,  was  of  ebony  and  silver.  Now  during 
the  first  part  of  his  stay  here  Monsieur  Fe're'dia  had  one 
of  ebony  and  silver,  which  I  never  after  saw  in  his 
possession.  Well,  sir,  is  it  not  true  that  I  need  have  no 
remorse  about  the  Spaniard's  fifteen  thousand  francs 
and  that  they  are  fairly  mine  ? ' 

'  Certainly.  But  you  never  tried  to  question 
Rosalie  ? '  said  I  to  her. 

'  Oh,  yes  indeed,  sir  !  But  what  use  was  it  ?  That 
girl  is  like  a  wall.  She  knows  something  but  it  is 
impossible  to  set  her  tongue  going.' 

After  having  talked  a  little  longer  with  me,  my 
hostess  left  me  a  prey  to  vague  and  gloomy  thoughts,  a 
romantic  curiosity,  a  religious  awe  something  like  the 
deep  feeling  which  comes  over  one  when  some  night 
one  enters  a  dark  church  and  sees  a  dim  light  far  off 
under  its  lofty  arches — a  figure  half  seen  glides  past, 
one  catches  the  rustle  of  a  dress  or  of  a  soutane,  and 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  141 

one  shudders.  La  Grande  Breteche,  with  its  tall  grass, 
its  shuttered  windows,  its  rusted  ironwork,  its  closed 
doors,  its  deserted  rooms,  came  up  all  at  once  in  my 
imagination.  I  tried  in  thought  to  penetrate  into  that 
abode  of  mystery,  seeking  there  the  connecting  link  of 
this  grim  story,  of  this  drama  that  had  been  the  death 
of  three  people. 

In  my  eyes  Rosalie  was  now  the  most  interesting 
being  in  Vendome.  Observing  her  closely,  notwith- 
standing the  glow  of  health  that  shone  on  her  plump 
features,  I  remarked  traces  of  some  hidden  thought.  She 
must  have  in  her  mind  some  permanent  source  of  either 
remorse  or  anxious  hope.  Her  expression  told  of 
some  secret,  it  might  seem  like  that  of  a  devotee  who  is 
carried  away  by  excess  of  fervour  in  prayer,  or  on  the 
other  hand  like  some  poor  girl  who  hears  always  the  last 
cry  of  her  murdered  child.  All  the  same  her  general 
manner  was  simple  and  dull ;  in  her  silly  smile  there  was 
no  trace  of  the  criminal ;  and  you  would  have  made  up 
your  mind  about  her  innocence  only  to  see  the  red  and 
blue  chequered  kerchief  that  covered  her  ample  bosom, 
and  was  closely  secured  in  the  opening  of  her  dress  of 
white  and  violet  stripes. 

'No,'  I  thought,  'I  shall  not  leave  Vend6me  with- 
out finding  out  the  whole  story  of  La  Grande  Breteche. 
And  to  gain  this  end  I  shall  even  make  love  to  Rosalie 
if  it  is  absolutely  necessary.' 

'  Rosalie  ? '  I  said  to  her  one  evening. 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir  ? ' 


HZ  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

'  You  are  not  married  ? ' 

She  gave  a  slight  start.  '  Oh !  I  shall  have  offers 
enough  whenever  a  fancy  for  being  miserable  comes 
over  me,'  she  said,  laughing. 

She  quickly  controlled  any  sign  of  inward  emotion, 
for  all  women,  from  the  fine  lady  down  to  the  servant 
in  a  tavern  inclusively,  have  a  self-possession  that  is  all 
their  own. 

'  You  are  fresh  enough,  winning  enough,  not  to  want 
for  lovers  !  But  tell  me,  Rosalie,  why  did  you  choose 
to  become  a  servant  in  an  inn  after  leaving  Madame  de 
Merret?  Can  it  be  that  she  did  not  give  you  any 
pension  ? ' 

'  Oh,  yes  indeed !  But,  sir,  my  place  is  the  best  in 
Vendome.' 

This  reply  was  of  the  class  which  judges  and  lawyers 
call  'evasive.'  Rosalie's  position  in  this  romantic 
history  seemed  to  me  like  that  of  the  middle  square  of 
the  draught-board.  She  was  in  the  very  centre  of 
interest,  the  centre  of  the  true  solution.  She  seemed 
to  me  tied  up  in  the  knot  of  complications.  It  was  no 
ordinary  attraction  that  drew  me  on.  In  this  girl  was 
embodied  the  last  chapter  of  a  romance,  so  from  that 
moment  Rosalie  became  the  special  object  of  my 
attentions.  When  I  began  to  study  this  woman,  I 
noticed  a  number  of  good  qualities  in  her,  as  one  does 
with  any  woman  who  becomes  the  chief  object  of  one's 
thoughts ;  she  was  neat  and  careful  about  herself ;  she 
was  pretty,  it  need  hardly  be  said ;  she  had  soon  all  the 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  143 

attractions  that  our  own  feelings  can  give  to  women 
whatever  their  position  may  be. 

A  fortnight  after  the  notary's  visit,  one  evening, 
or  rather  one  morning,  for  it  was  very  early,  I  said  to 
Rosalie : — 

'  Will  you  tell  me  now  all  that  you  know  about 
Madame  de  Merret  ? ' 

'  Oh  ! '  she  answered  with  a  look  of  terror,  '  don't  ask 
me  that,  Mr.  Horace  ! ' 

Her  beautiful  face  became  gloomy,  the  bright  ani- 
mated colour  on  her  cheeks  gave  way  to  paleness,  and 
her  eyes  had  no  longer  their  humid  radiance.  I  insisted 
nevertheless. 

1  Well,'  she  said  at  last,  '  since  you  will  have  it,  I  will 
tell  it  to  you.  But  you  must  keep  my  secret  carefully.' 

'Come,  come,  my  poor  girl,  I  shall  keep  all  your 
secrets  with  the  honour  there  is  among  thieves,  and  that 
is  the  most  reliable  thing  there  is  in  the  world.' 

'  If  it 's  the  same  to  you,'  she  said,  '  I  would  prefer  it 
to  be  kept  by  your  own  honour.' 

With  this  she  adjusted  her  kerchief,  and  settled  down 
as  if  to  tell  her  story ;  foi;  indeed  there  is  an  attitude  of 
confidence  and  comfort  that  is  quite  necessary  to  the 
telling  of  a  tale.  The  best  stories  are  related  at  a 
certain  hour  when  all  are  seated  at  table.  No  one  can 
tell  a  story  really  well  when  he  is  standing  up  or  fasting. 
But  if  I  had  to  reproduce  verbatim  the  diffuse  eloquence 
of  Rosalie,  a  whole  volume  would  hardly  give  space  for 
it.  Now  as  the  event,  of  which  she  gave  me  a  confused 


144  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

account,  fits  in  between  the  gossip  of  the  notary  and 
that  of  Madame  Lepas,  as  precisely  as  the  middle 
terms  of  an  arithmetical  proportion  come  between  its 
two  extremes,  I  need  only  tell  it  to  you  in  a  few  words. 
I  therefore  summarise  it. 

The  room  that  Madame  de  Merret  occupied  at  La 
Breteche  was  situated  on  the  ground  floor.  A  little 
closet  about  four  feet  deep,  constructed  in  the  thickness 
of  the  wall,  was  used  by  her  as  a  wardrobe.  Three 
months  before  the  evening,  the  events  of  which  I  am 
going  to  tell  you,  Madame  de  Merret  had  been  so  un- 
well that  her  husband  left  her  by  herself  in  her  room, 
and  slept  in  one  on  the  first  floor.  By  one  of  those 
chances  that  it  is  impossible  to  foresee,  he  returned  that 
evening  two  hours  later  than  usual  from  the  club,  where 
he  used  to  go  to  read  the  newspapers  and  talk  politics 
with  the  people  of  the  neighbourhood.  His  wife 
thought  he  had  already  come  in  and  gone  to  bed  and 
to  sleep.  But  the  invasion  of  France  had  been  the 
subject  of  a  very  animated  discussion ;  there  had  been 
an  exciting  billiard  match,  at  which  he  had  lost  forty 
francs,  an  enormous  sum  at  Vendome,  where  every 
one  is  hoarding  up  money,  and  where  the  everyday 
ways  of  life  are  defined  by  laudable  moderation,  which 
is  perhaps  a  source  of  such  true  happiness  as  the  average 
Parisian  does  not  care  for.  For  some  time  Monsieur  de 
Merret  had  always  been  satisfied  with  asking  Rosalie  if 
her  mistress  had  gone  to  bed,  and  on  her  replying  in 
the  affirmative,  he  would  go  at  once  to  his  own  room, 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  145 

in  all  the  good  humour  that  comes  of  a  habit  of  mutual 
confidence.  But  when  he  came  home  this  night  he 
took  a  fancy  to  go  to  Madame  de  Merret  and  tell  her 
of  his  misadventure,  perhaps  to  get  some  consolation 
for  it.  At  dinner  that  evening  he  had  remarked  that 
Madame  de  Merret  was  very  daintily  dressed.  On  his 
way  home  from  the  club  he  had  said  to  himself  that  his 
wife  must  be  recovered  from  her  illness,  that  her  con- 
valescence had  made  her  look  prettier,  and  that  he  had 
been  a  little  slow  in  remarking  it,  as  husbands  are  in 
noticing  anything.  Instead  of  calling  Rosalie,  who  at 
the  moment  was  occupied  in  the  kitchen,  watching  the 
cook  and  the  coachman  play  out  a  difficult  hand  at 
cards,  Monsieur  de  Merret  went  towards  his  wife's  room 
by  the  light  of  his  hand  lantern,  which  he  had  put  down 
on  the  first  step  of  the  stairs.  His  tread,  which  was 
easily  recognisable,  re-echoed  under  the  arched  roof  of 
the  corridor.  At  the  moment  that  he  turned  the  key  of 
his  wife's  room,  he  thought  he  heard  some  one  closing 
the  door  of  the  closet,  of  which  I  have  told  you.  But 
when  he  entered,  Madame  de  Merret  was  alone,  stand- 
ing in  front  of  the  fireplace.  The  husband  thought 
quite  simply  that  Rosalie  was  in  the  closet.  However 
a  suspicion,  that  tinkled  in  his  ear  like  the  sound  of  a 
bell,  made  him  mistrustful.  He  looked  at  his  wife  and 
saw  in  her  eyes  something  wild  and  troubled. 

'  You  have  come  home  very  late,'  she  said. 

Her  voice,  that  was  usually  so  clear  and  sweet, 
seemed  slightly  changed.  Monsieur  de  Merret  did 


146  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

not  reply,  for  at  this  moment  Rosalie  entered.  It  was 
a  thunderbolt  for  him.  He  walked  up  and  down  the 
room,  passing  from  one  window  to  the  other,  with  a 
regular  step,  and  with  his  arms  folded. 

'  Have  you  heard  some  bad  news  or  are  you  ill  ? '  his 
wife  asked  him  timidly,  while  Rosalie  began  to  undress 
her. 

He  kept  silent. 

'  You  can  go,'  said  Madame  de  Merret  to  her  maid, 
'  I  will  put  in  my  curl-papers  myself.' 

From  the  mere  look  of  her  husband's  face  she  sus- 
pected some  misfortune,  and  she  wanted  to  be  alone 
with  him.  When  Rosalie  had  gone  away,  or  when  they 
thought  she  had  gone,  for  she  remained  some  time  in 
the  corridor,  Monsieur  de  Merret  took  his  stand  in  front 
of  his  wife  and  said  to  her  coldly  : — 

'Madame,  there  is  some  one  in  your  wardrobe.' 

She  looked  quite  calmly  at  her  husband  and  answered 
him  simply : — 

'No,  sir.' 

That  '  No '  went  to  Monsieur  de  Merret's  heart,  for 
he  did  not  believe  it.  And  all  the  same  his  wife  had 
never  seemed  to  him  purer  and  holier  than  she  looked 
at  that  moment.  He  turned  as  if  to  go  and  open  the 
closet.  Madame  de  Merret  took  him  by  the  hand, 
stopped  him,  looked  at  him  with  an  air  of  melancholy, 
and  said  to  him  in  a  voice  full  of  deep  feeling : — 

'  If  you  find  no  one  there,  remember  that  all  is  over 
between  us ! ' 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  147 

The  incredible  dignity  that  was  stamped  upon  the 
whole  bearing  of  the  woman,  inspired  the  man  with 
profound  esteem  for  her,  and  suggested  to  him  one  of 
those  resolves  that  lack  only  a  wider  field  to  become 
famous  for  all  time. 

'  No,  Josephine,'  he  said,  '  I  shall  not  go  there. 
Whether  the  result  was  one  thing  or  the  other,  we 
should  be  parted  for  ever.  Listen  to  me.  I  know  all 
the  purity  of  your  soul,  and  I  know  that  you  lead  a  holy 
life.  You  would  not  commit  a  mortal  sin  even  to  save 
your  life.' 

At  these  words  Madame  de  Merret  glanced  at  her 
husband  with  a  haggard  look. 

'See,  here  is  your  crucifix,'  the  man  went  on; 
'  swear  to  me  before  God  that  there  is  no  one  there, 
and  I  will  believe  you.  I  will  not  open  that  door.' 

Madame  de  Merret  took  the  crucifix  and  said : — 

'  I  swear  it ! ' 

'Louder,'  said  her  husband,  'and  repeat  the  words 
"I  swear  before  God  that  there  is  no  one  in  that 
closet." ' 

She  repeated  the  words  without  any  hesitation. 

'  It  is  well,'  said  Monsieur  de  Merret  coldly. 

After  a  moment's  silence  he  said,  while  he  examined 
the  crucifix,  which  was  of  ebony  mounted  with  silver 
and  with  a  very  artistic  figure : — 

'  You  have  a  very  beautiful  thing  here.  I  did  not 
know  you  had  it.' 

'  I  found  it  at  Duvivier's  shop.     When  that  party  of 


148  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

prisoners  passed  through  Vendome  last  year,  he  bought 
it  from  a  Spanish  monk.' 

'  Ah ! '  said  Monsieur  de  Merret,  as  he  hung  the 
crucifix  again  on  its  nail  on  the  wall. 

Then  he  rang  the  bell.  Rosalie  soon  appeared. 
Monsieur  de  Merret  went  quickly  to  meet  her,  led  her 
to  the  bay  of  the  window  that  looked  out  on  the  garden, 
and  said  to  her  in  a  low  voice : — 

'  I  know  that  Gorenflot  would  like  to  marry  you,  that 
poverty  is  the  only  thing  that  prevents  you  setting  up 
house  together,  and  that  you  have  told  him  you  will  not 
be  his  wife  unless  he  can  find  the  means  to  set  up  as  a 
master  mason.  .  .  .  Well,  go  and  see  him,  and  tell  him 
to  come  here  at  once  with  his  trowel  and  his  other  tools. 
Take  care  to  wake  no  one  else  but  him  in  his  house. 
His  fortune  will  be  beyond  anything  you  can  wish  for. 
Above  all  when  you  go  out  of  this  don't  gossip,  other- 
wise .  .  .' 

He  gave  a  frown.  Rosalie  moved  to  go.  He  called 
her  back. 

1  Here,  take  my  latchkey,'  he  said. 

'  Jean  ! '  Monsieur  de  Merret  called  out  in  a  voice  of 
thunder  in  the  corridor. 

Jean  who  was  at  the  same  time  his  coachman  and 
his  confidential  servant  left  his  card  party  and  came  to 
him. 

'  Go  to  bed,  all  of  you,'  said  his  master,  making  a 
sign  to  him  to  come  near. 

Then  he  added,  but  in  a  low  voice : — 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  149 

'When  they  are  all  asleep— asleep,  do  you  thoroughly 
understand? — you  will  come  down  and  let  me  know.' 

Monsieur  de  Merret  who  had  never  let  his  wife  out  of 
his  sight  even  while  he  gave  his  orders,  came  quietly 
back  to  her  as  she  sat  by  the  fire,  and  began  to  tell  her 
the  events  of  the  billiard  match  and  the  discussion  at 
the  club.  When  Rosalie  returned  she  found  Monsieur 
and  Madame  de  Merret  talking  together  in  a  very 
friendly  way.  He  had  lately  had  new  ceiling  put  to  all 
the  apartments  of  his  suite  of  reception-rooms  on  the 
ground  floor.  Plaster  of  Paris  is  a  rarity  at  Venddme, 
for  the  cost  of  conveyance  greatly  increases  its  price.  He 
had  therefore  had  a  rather  large  supply  of  it  brought  to 
his  place,  for  he  knew  that  he  could  always  find  buyers 
for  what  was  left  over.  It  was  this  circumstance  that 
suggested  to  him  the  plan  he  put  into  execution. 

'  Monsieur  Gorenflot  is  here,'  said  Rosalie  in  a  low 
voice. 

'  Let  him  come  in,'  replied  the  Picard  aloud. 

Madame  de  Merret  turned  slightly  pale  when  she 
saw  the  mason. 

' Gorenflot,'  said  her  husband,  'go  and  get  some 
of  the  bricks  you  will  find  in  the  coach-house,  and  bring 
enough  of  them  to  wall  up  the  door  of  that  closet ;  you 
will  then  use  the  plaster  we  have  left  to  cover  up  the 
brickwork.' 

Then  calling  Rosalie  and  the  workman  to  him,  he 
said  in  a  low  voice : — 

1  Attend  to  me,  Gorenflot.     You  are  to  sleep  in  this 


i5o  LA  GRANDE  BRETfcCHE 

house  to-night,  but  to-morrow  morning  you  will  be 
given  a  passport  to  go  to  a  foreign  country,  to  a  town 
which  I  will  point  out  to  you.  I  will  hand  you  six 
thousand  francs  for  your  journey.  You  will  remain  ten 
years  in  that  town.  If  you  are  not  comfortable  there, 
you  can  establish  yourself  in  some  other,  provided  that 
it  is  in  the  same  country.  You  will  go  by  way  of  Paris, 
where  you  will  wait  to  see  me.  There  I  will  secure  to 
you  by  a  bond  another  sum  of  six  thousand  francs,  which 
will  be  paid  to  you  on  your  return  to  France  provided 
you  have  fulfilled  all  the  conditions  of  our  contract.  For 
this  reward  you  must  observe  the  most  absolute  secrecy 
about  what  you  are  to  do  to-night.  ...  As  for  you, 
Rosalie,  I  shall  give  you  ten  thousand  francs,  which  will 
not  be  paid  to  you  till  your  wedding-day,  and  on  con- 
dition that  you  marry  Monsieur  Gorenflot ;  but  if  you 
mean  to  marry  him  you  must  keep  silence,  otherwise, 
there  is  no  dowry  for  you.' 

'Rosalie,'  said  Madame  de  Merret,  'come  and  do 
my  hair.' 

The  husband  walked  quietly  up  and  down  the  room, 
keeping  a  watch  on  the  door,  his  wife,  and  the  mason, 
but  without  making  any  offensive  show  of  suspicion. 
Gorenflot  could  not  avoid  making  some  noise.  Madame 
de  Merret  took  advantage  of  a  moment  when  the 
workman  was  throwing  down  a  load  of  bricks,  and  her 
husband  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  to  say  to 
Rosalie : — 

'Ten  thousand  francs  a  year  for  yourself,  my  dear 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  151 

child,  if  you  can  tell  Gorenflot  to  leave  an  open  slit  at 
the  bottom  of  the  wall.' 

Then  she  said  to  her  aloud  and  quite  calmly,  'Go 
and  help  him  ! ' 

Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Merret  did  not  exchange 
a  word  during  all  the  time  that  Gorenflot  took  to  wall 
up  the  door.  This  silence  was  a  matter  of  deliberate 
purpose  with  the  husband,  who  did  not  want  to  give  his 
wife  the  pretext  for  uttering  words  that  might  have 
some  hidden  meaning ;  and  with  Madame  de  Merret  it 
was  prompted  by  prudence  or  pride.  When  the  wall 
was  built  up  to  about  half  its  height  the  cunning  mason 
took  advantage  of  a  moment  when  the  husband  had 
his  back  turned  to  him,  to  put  the  point  of  his  pick 
through  one  of  the  two  panes  of  glass  in  the  door. 
This  act  of  his  gave  Madame  de  Merret  to  understand 
that  Rosalie  had  spoken  to  Gorenflot.  Just  then  all 
the  three  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  dark,  bronzed  face  of 
a  man,  with  black  hair,  and  a  look  of  fire  in  his  eyes. 
Before  her  husband  could  turn  round,  the  poor  woman 
had  time  to  make  a  sign  with  her  head  to  the  stranger, 
for  whom  the  nod  signified  '  Don't  lose  hope ! '  At 
four  o'clock  when  the  first  grey  dawn  was  breaking,  for 
it  was  the  month  of  September,  the  work  was  finished. 
The  mason  remained  in  the  house  in  Jean's  keeping, 
and  Monsieur  de  Merret  slept  in  his  wife's  room.  In 
the  morning,  as  he  rose,  he  said  carelessly : — 

'Ah,  confound  it,  I  must  go  the  mairie  for  the 
passport  1 ' 


152  LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

He  put  his  hat  on  his  head,  made  three  steps  towards 
the  door,  then,  as  if  by  an  afterthought,  he  took  the 
crucifix.  His  wife  felt  a  thrill  of  happiness. 

'  He  will  go  away  to  Duvivier's,'  she  thought. 

But  as  soon  as  he  had  gone  out,  Madame  de  Merret 
rang  for  Rosalie.  Then  she  cried  out  in  a  terrible  tone 
of  voice : — 

'  The  pick  !  the  pick  !  to  work  !  I  saw  how  Goren- 
flot  set  about  doing  it  yesterday.  We  shall  have  time 
to  make  a  hole  and  then  close  it  up  again.' 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  Rosalie  brought  a  kind  of 
small  pick-axe  to  her  mistress,  who,  with  an  energy  that 
no  one  could  have  imagined  her  capable  of,  set  to  work 
to  demolish  the  wall.  She  had  already  sent  some  bricks 
flying,  when,  as  she  swung  back  to  give  a  more  vigorous 
blow  than  the  rest,  she  saw  Monsieur  de  Merret  stand- 
ing behind  her.  She  fainted. 

'  Lay  Madame  on  her  bed,'  said  the  husband  coldly. 

Foreseeing  what  would  happen  during  his  absence 
he  had  set  a  trap  for  his  wife.  He  had  already  written 
to  the  mayor,  and  sent  a  summons  to  Duvivier.  The 
jeweller  arrived  just  at  the  moment  when  the  wreckage 
in  the  room  had  been  repaired. 

'  Duvivier,'  he  asked  him,  '  have  you  not  bought 
crucifixes  from  Spaniards  passing  through  the  town  ? ' 

'No,  sir.' 

'  That 's  all,  thank  you,'  said  he,  as  he  exchanged  a 
tigerish  look  with  his  wife.  'Jean,'  he  went  on  turning 
to  his  confidential  servant,  'you  will  have  my  meals 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  153 

served  here  in  Madame  de  Merret's  room.  She  is  ill, 
and  I  shall  not  leave  her  till  she  has  recovered.' 

The  cruel  man  stayed  for  twenty  days  beside  his  wife. 

At  first,  when  there  was  a  noise  in  the  closet,  and 
Josephine  thought  of  imploring  his  mercy  for  the  dying 
stranger,  he  would  reply  to  her,  without  allowing  her  to 
say  a  single  word : — 

'  You  swore  to  me  on  the  cross  that  there  was  no  one 
there ! ' 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  CONSTABLE,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


AUG021985 


DATE  DUE 


CAYLORD 


A     000616563     3 


